


Interludes

by FelicityGS



Series: Poetry Verse [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Communication Failure, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, M/M, TW: Suicide, how relationships work, or rather how relationships are not all fluff and rainbows even if you're in love, post-movies, tw: abuse (just to be on the safe side), tw: body dysphoria, tw: falling, tw: panic attack, tw: self-harm, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 72,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the tiny and not so tiny moments together, sorting out what life is now and who they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a Fever

**Author's Note:**

> THIS story has some illness in it. Nothing major. I'm opening Interludes with it because I think it's going to be a nice tone setter-we'll still have the occasional silly, and boy is the fluff fluffy, but not all of it is rainbows anymore.
> 
> I've got at least one other 'chapter' I'm going to post today, possibly a second, so hang tight ya'll.

**Just a Fever**

Loki is late to lunch.

Steve checks his watch again. Then he checks his calendar just to make sure he doesn't have the time wrong. He tries calling but Loki doesn't pick up.

He frowns and drums his fingers on the counter.

Loki is never late. For supposedly having been the god of chaos, Steve has never actually met anyone more rigidly scheduled, planned, and organized than Loki outside of the military. He hesitates, then decides to wait a bit longer-give Loki time to call back if he's in the middle of something else and lost track.

Thirty minutes later, Loki calls.

"Loki," he says, relieved. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. I fell asleep." Loki's voice is raspy, brittle, and angry. It doesn't reassure him in the slightest. "I apologize. Is dinner acceptable?"

"Yeah. That's great. Are you sure everything is alright? You sound a little off."

"Yes. I will see you later. My place."

"Right. Love you."

Loki hums and hangs up. Steve frowns at his phone and debates calling Olek to see if he's noticed anything.

No. No. Loki said he's fine. Steve will believe him.

He fixes himself a quick lunch and is cleaning up in the kitchen when he realizes they never decided a time for dinner. He sends Loki a text, which he still hasn't gotten a response to nearly two hours later. He calls and leaves a message.

Seven should be ok, seven is usually when they do dinner on Wednesdays if they will do dinner together. But when Loki still hasn't responded around five he sends another text, just to make sure. It's so unlike Loki to not reply.

XXXXXX

Loki's temper is well worth the title. It flares bright, is vicious, and often ends with a few broken things.

Steve hates it.

Hates the self-loathing it just barely stretches over, hates that Loki uses it to hide that he's upset about something, that Loki must be baited in order to reveal what's wrong in the first place. Hates how all Loki seems to want to do is pick fights when he's irritated.

Steve isn't sure if it's an Asgard thing, a Loki thing, or both. Thor certainly doesn't seem to do it, but Thor also never talks about his emotions really and rarely grows angry at Steve.

The one thing he can appreciate is Loki's temper means Loki is also willing to eventually claw his way out of whatever has him depressed, even if it takes a little prodding.

XXXXXX

He gets to Loki's a bit before seven (because he always likes to be a little early). When he knocks, there isn't an answer. He waits a few minutes before he knocks again.

(He hesitates to use the spare key, even with the light on; he still remembers the distress in Loki's eyes from when he left the roses, though Loki never said anything about it.)

But he's left a few messages and Loki did ask him to stop by in the first place.

The apartment is utterly still.

"Loki?"

The studio door is closed and the bedroom light is off; he goes to the kitchen. It looks empty, the tea kettle set out, tea and honey next to it on the counter. There's a broken mug-not thrown, this one looks like it was knocked over-with water still slightly steaming and all over the floor. For a second, Steve is afraid that Natasha lied about making sure SHIELD doesn't get involved.

There's the slightest rustle of fabric from the side of the counter Steve can't see.

"Loki?" he says again softly and rounds the counter.

The other man is in the floor, his back pressed against the cabinets, arms wrapped tight around his legs, head bowed against his knees. His hair, usually kept so neat, is in total disarray; one sleeve is soaked in spilled water. Steve crouches down next to him and braces for the faceful of temper he's going to get for seeing Loki like this.

"Hey," he says.

Loki flinches and draws further into himself.

"You okay? What happened?"

"Useless." Muffled, voice dark. But no anger-just wet and rasping and despair. "Cannot even make tea. Useless. Stupid. I do not know."

"What don't you know?" He keeps his voice calm; inside, he's trying to figure out what is going on. Loki simply does not mope. Ever. Not like this. Steve is sure that in a moment Loki will snap, that the temper will flare up, and he'll need to edge his way to what's wrong without losing his own temper in the process.

"What's _wrong_ ," Loki sobs, shoulders shaking, and Steve knows right then there is no anger left. "I do not know what I did or what has happened, but I feel _awful_ , everything hurts, everything, and my throat aches, and I am always cold and tired and I do not know _why_."

Steve blinks.

"Hey, it's okay. Look at me."

"Why?" Loki despairs. "I am pathetic."

"Come on, Loki. Look at me for a second, let me see. How long have you felt this way?" He rubs one of Loki's arms.

"A few days now. I do not know." Loki looks up; his nose is running and eyes a bit red, but Steve puts that down to the crying. He presses the back of his hand to Loki's forehead-burning hot. A fever. Just a fever. Nothing to worry about and as Steve looks at Loki he doesn't understand _why_ Loki is so upset over something so common. He'd had his fair share of colds before the serum. For that matter, Steve is a bit surprised Loki can even get sick, what with the whole-

Oh.

Right.

 _Former_ deity, but now human, oh so human and frail. Steve feels his breath suddenly vanish, everything around him fading to white noise as he looks at Loki, Loki who _can_ get sick and a million other things all so _easily_.

Something of it must show on his face; Loki sobs again and presses his face back to his knees. Steve shoves his panic aside, tries to treat this like combat. He needs a plan of attack.

Convince Loki this is not the end of the world.

Shower or bath.

Soup.

Bed.

He can worry about his own realization and terror later. Loki has never been sick before, probably well... no _definitely_ has no idea what is going on, likely never even realized that sickness is a thing, and all that stacked atop fatigue and a muddled head.

"Loki, love, it's okay. You're going to be okay. Look at me, look at me, Loki, love, sshhh, it's okay." He runs a hand through Loki's hair, rubs the back of his neck gently. "Nothing to worry about. Promise. You just have a fever. Come on, let's get you a shower and bed. Come on."

Steve helps Loki up, guides him to the bathroom, makes sure he wants a shower and not a bath. Shower started, he goes back to the kitchen and cleans up the mess. Out of the cabinets and fridge he pulls the things he needs to make soup and once it's diced and the vegetables are beginning to colour in the pot he goes back to check on Loki. Loki's in the shower floor, eyes dazed, but not crying any longer and once Steve is sure he won't break down or fall asleep, he goes back to the kitchen, adds the broth, swirls it once, and then sets the whole thing on low to simmer to completion.

He grabs Loki's favourite pajama pants from the bedroom. Once Loki's comfortable and in bed, he lays down with him, face to face. Their legs are tangled together, blankets pulled around their shoulders, and Steve runs his hand through Loki's hair before moving down to gently rub his neck and shoulders. Loki's breath is fever hot against his lips, but Steve stays where he is, their foreheads pressed together.

"I am dying," Loki finally says, voice flat and dull.

"No," Steve says firmly.

"Your face suggested otherwise."

Steve huffs a sigh.

"You aren't dying. Just forgot you can get sick."

"Sick," and it's a half-question as much as it is an echo.

"Yes. You aren't dying. You're going to be okay. You have a cold, that's all. Fever, fatigue, sore throat, probably a headache. I bet you've been just trying to plow through and tiring yourself out more, so you haven't been able to get better." Steve rubs a string of half-moons in Loki's skin. "You'll be okay. You just need a bit of rest."

"Rest. And this is...?"

"Perfectly normal. Not dying. Very human." Steve swallows at the reminder. "So stop worrying. We'll go to a doctor tomorrow to make sure you don't need any medication. I set some soup on. My mom used to make it, perk you right up. Relax." He brushes a bit of damp hair out of Loki's face.

"I see," Loki murmurs, eyes sliding closed the rest of the way. "Human. Sick."

"You'll be okay. Day or two and you'll feel right as rain."

Loki nods slightly.

"I love you," Steve whispers.

"And I you," Loki mumbles, eyes closed. It only takes a few more minutes before he's sleeping exhausted. Steve eases out from underneath the blankets and tucks them more firmly around Loki. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he strokes Loki's hair, runs a hand over his back.

He has never been so terrified by illness, not even when he had every health problem imaginable and barely weighed ninety pounds.

It's so _easy_ to forget how fragile Loki is now, so _easy_ to forget because Loki certainly never acts as if he is. And here, another reminder-that Loki knows so very _little_ about being human and all that entails.

Things will be okay. He knows this. Colds are so common, he survived his fair share of them even with all his issues, this is nothing worth worrying over.

(But he _forgot_ and what if he forgets again, when it is something worse?)

(Forgets that Loki cannot survive more than the average person anymore.)

(He doesn't want to lose anyone else ever again.)

Steve leans down and presses a kiss to the side of Loki's head, swallows back any tears he might shed, and leaves to check on the soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righto, let's do this guys. Here's how Interludes is gonna work.
> 
> It's a nice easy gathering of a bunch of stories following Quiet Poetry, dealing with a number of issues. Each 'chapter' is basically a different short story of their life. Some of these will overlap, some of them won't; I'm going to try to post them chronologically but that might not always happen. When and where stories overlap, I'll point it out in an A/N at the beginning of the chapter. Ratings, characters, and all of that is going to vary wildly as we go, so I've set the fic to M since I know several stories will require it. All warnings will go at the top of each chapter, and will apply only to that story.
> 
> It really is just a bunch of interludes, so I can show you how I'd think they'd work until I feel ready/comfortable with starting the final major fic of the series, Sonnets of the Portuguese-and it's going to have a similar over-arching story like Quiet Poetry did.
> 
> Interludes is going to end up getting characterized by three basic periods of time; when it becomes relevant, I'll mention that again. For now, we're in the space a month or so after Steve's birthday.


	2. You're Like Charcoal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second story. If I'm doing a third today, that'll need to wait. I've got that one hand-written and I'm debating if I want it next or a different one next. We'll see.
> 
> I do promise there are plenty of Loki POV's that we're going to encounter as well, it's not all Steve all the time.
> 
> Warnings: weight views, Steve shoving his foot in his mouth
> 
> Rating: general

**You're Like Charcoal**

They're at an apple orchard; Steve had managed to convince Loki that, yes, this really is part of the 'fall experience' on Midgard. It wasn't actually that hard-Loki loves apples.

Loki is bundled up with a sweater and scarf, matching shades of Dark Cobalt Green which turn his eyes nearly the colour of a lake, and he is frowning slightly. Steve has been charged with carrying the bucket, nearly filled to the brim with fresh apples. Loki adores apples, particularly Braeburns—says that they are so very different from those in Asgard (which Steve found out while Loki was drunk, because Loki never talks of his former home otherwise).

The orchard itself is a riot of gold and red, blazing beautiful—the sort of landscape best suited to oils as far as Steve's concerned, all umbers and ochers and alizarin crimsons.

"Why," Loki finally asks, once they are sipping warmed cider, bucket of apples paid for and on their way back to the car (Steve drove, of course), "are all the trees dying?"

"What?"

"The trees. Why are they dying? I've always wondered, actually." Loki sips cider and eyes one particularly bare tree.

"Uh. Well, they aren't."

"Oh?"

"Just going to sleep. Shed their leaves before it gets cold, and then come back in spring. Isn't how they work where you're from?"

"Like a bear in hibernation," Loki says instead.

It isn't until later, on the couch, Steve with his arms around Loki, that Loki finally answers Steve. He buries his face between Loki's neck and shoulder, kisses his favourite curve, and Loki says

"They don't. They are always perfect, live and green. There are not seasons, not like here."

It takes Steve nearly half an hour to figure out what on earth Loki is talking about; when he does, he huffs a little. The conversation is gone though (even if that had not stopped Loki), so he lets it go.

Besides, teaching Loki to make apple pie (well, teaching Loki to cook _anything_ ) is challenging enough without the landmine that is discussing Asgard.

XXXXXX

"He's not been eating as much lately," Steve explains to Olek. "I'm worried is all."

Olek thinks for a moment, though Steve can't tell if he's deciding if the lighting is right for the painting he's hanging in the gallery or if he's actually listening to what Steve is saying.

"I do believe you are right my friend. He usually gets a muffin at our coffee meeting on Tuesdays, and lately he has not."

"See? He loves food. I think something is wrong." Steve frowns. He has no idea what could be wrong-everything _seems_ fine, at least to him. There are no major performances coming up, no compositions nearing their deadlines, they haven't argued over anything in nearly two weeks. Loki has not become less social and he still smiles his small little smile.

"Maybe he is trying to lose weight," Olek suggests.

"What? What weight?"

Olek waves a hand distractedly.

"Oh, no need to worry about it. He's put on only a little since we met. It was bound to happen, I imagine he was much more active in the backwater he came from." Olek pauses. "What do you think of this? Do the colours suit?"

Steve stops worrying for a moment to study the painting and the surrounding ones.

"Yes," he says. "I like how warm it is. Makes it stand out against the rest."

"Good," Olek smiles, then looks at Steve. "So you have not noticed? Ah, love. I am glad you do not mind-he was almost wisp when we met. Well, a very bony whisp. It is good to see him like this."

Steve thinks back to when he met Loki in March and Loki now. He supposes that perhaps Loki _has_ put on a little weight. He hasn't really noticed, other than thinking Loki looks softer at the edges than he used to and putting it down to contentment.

XXXXXX

He really does mean to ask Loki about it.

He just.. forgets.

(Not exactly forgets, just Loki is on the edge of snapping, temper flaring at the slightest things, and Steve _hates_ Loki's anger. It's full of echoes of what happened to New York and only makes him realize more and more that while some of Loki's actions then were for a.. type of good for Asgard, that it was also tinged with his rage.

Loki breaks things when he's angry, isn't often given to raising his voice but is no less vicious for it, and all of it laced with a sort of resigned self-loathing that makes Steve dizzy and sick for want to yell at Loki in anger and at the same time wrap him in a hug and hold him until things are better.)

Steve figures it's safer to just assume (it's not like he understands dieting anyway). Shortly after he starts to change how much and what he cooks, Loki seems to start eating more.

XXXXXX

His first mistake, Steve realizes as he walks into Loki's kitchen to find flour on every surface, melted butter, puddles of ice water, and one _furious_ Loki, was to assume _anything_ regarding Loki's eating habits and weight. There's a bowl of perfectly sliced apples though-probably the only thing that hasn't gone wrong, if Loki's expression is anything to go by.

" _Steve_ ," Loki snaps in greeting.

He has flour in his hair. Steve would find it endearing if Loki didn't look like he was about murder someone.

"Hey, Loki," Steve says cautiously. "What's going on?"

"I am _trying_ to make pie. I want apple pie."

The oven beeps timidly. Well, not really timidly, but Steve is pretty sure that if it were sentient it would.

"Oh. Why didn't you ask? You know I like to-"

"Because you would not use butter. And you would not use enough sugar." Steve eyes the kitchen as Loki talks. He isn't sure there's a single clean mixing bowl. But the pie crust dough looks like it had been coming together alright before Loki likely got distracted or frustrated. Or both. "You would probably find a way to substitute the cinnamon."

"Oh. Well... I mean."

"What? Did you think I didn't _notice_ what you were doing?"

Steve swears to himself he will never again try to alter food for Loki without asking first if he gets out of this alive. Loki stops glaring at Steve to instead glare at his kitchen, as if it is at fault for the mess-but he still knows where Steve is because as Steve takes a step closer he edges away.

"I just thought you, you know," Steve says helplessly.

"I _what_?"

"Were trying to lose weight."

Loki's scowl somehow gets darker.

"Excuse me?"

"I just... you had stopped eating as much, and Olek mentioned you weren't eating like you normally do. And you have put on a little weight so I thought maybe you were trying to lose some." If he gets any redder, Steve thinks his face will catch fire.

"This stupid Midgardian obsession with _weight_." Loki paces about the small space, reaches and picks up his chef's knife, then sets it back down again abruptly. "I was _sick_ a few weeks ago, you should _remember_. I did not desire to eat _anything_."

Right. Steve remembers-it was the first time Loki had ever been sick, this sudden sharp reminder of what he is _now_. It would make sense Loki had lost his appetite since then for a while. Steve hadn't even _thought_ of the illness, at least not since he's initial worry.

"Is it a _problem_? Does this bother you? Am I less appealing?"

"No! No! It's not that!" Loki eyes Steve and Steve searches for some way to explain. Starts, stumbling, but words growing more sure. "It's not that. I love you _however_ you look, and I love you _now_. You're still this drawing swirled to life." He steps closer to Loki again and Loki doesn't step back this time though his eyes are still narrowed distrustfully. "Still all lines I could draw forever, but now, now you're charcoal-gentle lines, smudged and soft and airy, impossible to catch right on the page. Not ink, not hard and sharp. And we both know charcoal is my favourite. So no. No. You're still just as attractive as ever, _more_ , and I'm sorry. I am. I should have asked why you weren't eating as much, I shouldn't have assumed."

Loki's face is still smooth and distrusting. Steve tries wiping a bit of flour off one cheek; Loki doesn't move away. He lets his hand keep going, then pulls Loki's face towards his and kisses him gently.

"You owe me something worth eating," Loki says after they pull away, voice still a little brittle.

Steve surveys the destroyed kitchen.

"I'll come up with something. I think you've melted all the butter though, so not pie tonight." He thinks a bit. "Something Scandinavian."

Loki snorts.

"You'll like it. I was doing some looking-it's got almond paste. And cream."

A little more unease slips away from Loki's posture.

"Whole milk?"

"Yes."

Loki hums thoughtfully.

"Can I eat the rest of the almond paste?"

"Whatever you want." Steve kisses him again.

Loki's eyes are all warm ochres and pthalo greens, a smile on his lips.

"You are truly not bothered?"

"Charcoal," Steve says, a reminder. Brushes a bit of flour of Loki's hair. "I am sorry."

Loki kisses him.

"Good. I shall go shower. You shall clean the kitchen."

Steve huffs a laugh. Loki smiles against his lips as they kiss one more time; then Loki leaves. A few minutes later Steve hears the shower start.

Steve hums to himself, moving about the kitchen, and begins to start some dough rising in the only clean mixing bowl he can find.


	3. Perceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand done with the posting for today. We go back to regular old normal time updates. 
> 
> It's a bit dreamy, a bit disoriented, and a lot more deeply into Loki's POV than I typically go for stories. I like you guys being able to clearly piece together what's happening, you know? However, let's just say this is a nice look at what I don't usually write, kay? Kay.
> 
> Rating is soooo explicit. 
> 
> Warnings: nightmares, falling, pretty terrible hangovers

**Perceptions**

They are stumbling down the street, Loki trying to rest his head against Steve's shoulder and irritated that they are the same height-this is much more difficult than need be. He nearly falls, stumble steps and ends up tangled against Steve.

"You're drunk," Steve says wryly.

" _Hardly_ , I can drink much more than that! That was hardly anything." Loki protests; his mouth feels cottony so he takes extra care to enunciate, feel each sharp flick of word against his teeth before it trips off his tongue. "I can outdrink you."

"I'm sure you can." Steve chuckles, low deep rumble purr; Loki runs his fingers along the edge of Steve's shirt (to tug it out of his pants, wants Steve to chuckle again and drown in the sound, skin pressed to his ear). "Come on, Loki."

Loki shudders at the way Steve says his name, a sliding rise into sharpness, 'i' savoured along the roof of mouth and tongue. Still stopped, Loki presses against Steve, tries to herd him towards a wall, feels taut flesh and muscle as he _finally_ tugs Steve's shirt out of his pants. He kisses along Steve's throat and grinds up against Steve at the surprised gust that brushes by his ear, his pulse, his chuckle, all the noises of Steve.

"Loki, no, come on."

And Steve drags his hands away, pushes Loki away. Loki scowls (pouts) at Steve, at the distance and how he can longer _hear_ Steve. Steve wraps an arm around his waist, guides him again.

(Not close enough, Loki thinks, but it will do-he can hear Steve's breath once more, steady rhythm to guide his feet.)

Silence.

Steve's hands are tugging his shoes off and the sky is white smooth-the ceiling. He blinks and looks down to Steve, props himself on his elbows and tries not to collapse as the... bed (words are so _distant_ right now) shifts beneath his weight. Steve glances up at him—Loki hears rhythm of his breathing change and a noise (whine) slips unbidden from his throat. Steve says something, chuckles low deep again, and Loki tilts his head back, closes his eyes (sound runs live fire crackle along his nerves, makes his hips twitch and cock harden).

Everything tilt spin drifts; Loki gasps and opens his eyes, sees Steve leaning up along him—grounds on the noise of cloth rasping and zipper teeth click (spreads his legs, some noise (his?) needy wanting whine-groan in the air, drum thud beat against his temples— _closer_ he thinks, _closer_ he needs to _hear_ ).

Steve chuckles again.

He fumbles with numb fingers, tangles in hair and pulls, desperate; he needs to hear pulse sigh low rumble _heart_

sound feel vibration heat along the underside of his cock, groans and cannot hear, hears _too much_ : pulse rhythm, sigh low b-flat, rippling chuckle vibrato, grunt rasp cloth and pushes into the noise-feel, closes his eyes again to drown in the sound, white pressure swell pressing against bones flesh swell crescendo—

silence.

Wet damp, wet clothes and movement, sick swirl (too much _sound_ )(door slam, streetlamp buzz, creaking wind bed rustle fabric skin on skin hiss water tip-tap-drip-tap —

A heartbeat steady

(one-two-three-four one-two-three-four one-two-three-four)

warmth and tempo.

He curls on his side, face pressed against warm tempo beat, and he sleeps.

Silence.

He wakes to fuzzy mouthfeel and sound of drum-drum-drum pounding pulse, to a spinning room and sick-bright light and he thinks he might die for the aching of bones. This hurts more in his head than traffic and cars and noisy classrooms combined.

Steve walks out of the bathroom (so that's where the slippery sickening water noise has been coming from), toweling his hair. Loki stares up at him before whining a little in the back of his throat (Steve, he finds, responds well to these undignified noises).

Steve laughs at him.

The noise makes the world spin-twist- _slide_ and he lurches off the bed (when did he take his clothes off?). Body is treasonous—his legs fold and he's staring up at the ceiling, then his stomach letting its displeasure be very known—

Well. How dignified.

He feels marginally better at least. The room is still dizzy and Loki is not sure he could get up if he wanted to (he actually does. Want to. Mostly to get under the sick slick shower water noise and curl up until things become more stable).

Steve picks him up and helps him stagger to the bathroom.

Not silence. Something like it though.

"You can drink more than that, eh?"

Loki glares at Steve over his coffee (milk with coffee, Steve says) and hunches in further. The kitchen light buzzes maddening overhead, sound slips through the kitchen window, click of coffee pot burner turning on head-thud-thudding migraine breath too loud. Even Steve's voice is a bother this morning.

(He does not say that—Loki did just vomit in Steve's bedroom floor, which Steve has cleaned while Loki attempted to die in the shower.)

(This is as magnanimous as he is willing to be.)

It is nearly three days before they see each other again—Steve away for SHIELD, Loki in San Diego for a performance. It passes in a blur of noise and half-remembered images.

(Loki can, for example, name the particularly annoying notes of not-New York, remembers vividly the human bustle sing-song of Chinatown, the exact volume the room rustled before he began to play. San Diego was a _loud_ city and his head still aches from the unfamiliarity even as he is embraced again by New York.)

"What was it like?" Steve asks him over take-out, a movie playing. They are sitting in the floor, half of Loki's favourite Japanese restaurant spread around them. Loki pauses, finishes chewing thoughtfully.

"Bright," he says. And it was that. "You would have liked the bridge. There were seals as well."

(They were loud; despite how obnoxious they were, Loki had found himself quite liking their off-key happy barks.)

"Is that all?" Steve asks. "Did you like it? How was the concert hall?"

"Dark. Dark woods and dark fabrics." Loki pauses to remember but it's a visual blur. It is not _sight_ Loki cares about. "It resonated beautifully."

(Understatement of the year, as mortals say, but Loki does not have words to explain to Steve what it was truly like.)

"I should get you a camera," Steve laughs, attention going back to the animated penguins on the television.

"Perhaps," Loki allows.

(He wishes more people he deals with perceived as he does.)

It is easy for Steve, who thinks in shapes and lines. Humans are innately visual creatures (he would like to argue they aural as well, but...) and have so many words and measures for things in those terms. Even children with no training can understand those terms. Not so music, which humans have spent lifetimes attempting to verbalize.

Steve helps him clear away the food (Loki loves the sound and taste of food on his tongue, finds it innately sensual), putting leftovers in the fridge and tossing out empty boxes. They kiss goodbye (Steve has not yet unpacked) and then Loki is alone. He debates seeing if Lethe would like to do anything, but it is late (and to be honest, he desires to be alone a little while)(not that he would have told Steve that).

It is dark, greys and blues and shadows. A dog barks, cats answer, trees rustle sigh, door slams. Water drip-drips, electricity hums, an engine turns over. (There's no rhythm or meaning to these assorted sounds; his mind conjures up melody, harmony, counterpoints; weaves them all together till his head fills a symphony, this swelling throbbing _noise_ where once magic soothed, aching temple build up—

Loki rolls over. Rustle fabric breaks up discordant cacophony and his eyes drift closed again.

Car door. Laughter. Drip-tap-splash, owl, swish of air and tires, engine stops, keys jangle drop, engine starts...

Silence.

(Blackness and falling and faint star glimmer. "No, Loki." Falling, falling blackness and silence and faint star glimmer. Falling ground rushing up, too fast, "No, Loki"—

He wakes. Streetlight slips beneath the blinds. The steady red glow of the clock reads 4:02. Three hours is not so bad, he thinks, and begins a new day.

Loki is unsure what causes Steve to suddenly realize Loki does not perceive the same way (actually _realize_ , not just know in passing). He thinks it might be his own fault—he has been talking about an opera he has been commissioned to write and the particular sounds unique to opera (which he does not like, too Wagner. Or rather, too Asgard (he does not like Wagner either)).

"How do you perceive things?"

Loki blinks, tries to get his mind to change pace. It is not a question he has ever heard or ever expected to hear.

(They are playing poker in Steve's living room floor.)

"Not like you," Loki supplies with an easy smile. Both true and allows Loki to dodge the question (he is _not_ afraid Steve will find it alien and like him less for it.)

"Can you tell me how?"

Loki looks at his hand. Steve will win this round, he suspects—his own is terrible.

"Possibly," Loki allows. "I do not have many words for it."

Steve hums thoughtfully—Loki's favourite hum, which seems to rumble through the room, wired straight to Loki's brain and nerves and always arousing. He might not have words but he thinks he can... 'show' Steve.

"Here." Loki tosses his cards aside and closes the distance between them. Steve obligingly sets his own cards down (and Loki was right, he would have lost this round) and adjusts how he is sitting. Loki places his hands over Steve's eyes, so close now Steve's breath is brushing against his skin, Steve's pulse _almost_ audible.

"Loki, you aren't bli—"

"Hush. _Listen_."

Loki watches Steve as silence-or-something-like-it settles once more. He is so very close to Steve, each's breath brushing against the other's lips. Steady in, steady out. Steve's eyelashes flutter against the palms of his hands but his eyes stay shut.

A muffled door slam. Heat hisses on. Loki closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Steve's. Soft rustle of thin cotton as Steve shifts, rougher and stiffer sound of his jeans moving, and there, finally, just beneath the surface, a delicate, mortal-thin pulse.

(He is not sure if it is Steve's or his own.)

The soft intake of air right before Steve speaks; Loki kisses him before he can interrupt this... _peace_.

They don't need to talk—he tries to _show_ that as he explore the particular cold-hot taste of Steve's mouth, the particular wet sound; not sloppy, but... primal, yes. The light gasp of air and feel of teeth biting down in the soft flesh of bottom lip. Accidental percussion of teeth against teeth.

He pulls back, heart stut-stuttering, face hot and pulse loud. Steve's hands are resting at his waist, fingertips digging in slightly at the motion; Loki fumbles and grabs his scarf one-handed off the floor, then ties it about Steve's eyes.

Steve waits, patient, face flush, eyes closed.

Scarf now make-shift blindfold and tied, Loki kisses Steve again, trails along Steve's oh-so-strong jaw, down his neck to his collarbone. Steve's pulse is faster than Loki's own and it occurs to Loki that this, then, this trusting blindness, is entirely new for Steve. He grazes his teeth along the tense muscle (and _oh_ how Loki loves that noise) and Steve's hips grind up against Loki, instinct and rasp of jean against slacks.

A certain hard-soft snap sound as Loki undoes the front of Steve's shirt, leaning down and continuing to kiss slowly revealed planes of flesh. He grinds back against Steve, sets tempo ( _larghissimo_ ), and for a little while closes his eyes, revels in sound of lips against skin, tense breath rustling his hair, creak of muscle as Steve fumbles and slides hands hesitantly, blindly, along the curve of Loki's neck and to his hair.

He opens his eyes and moves, pushes Steve down onto the carpet. Undoes Steve's pants and tugs slightly; Steve takes the unspoken command—oh _clever_ Steve—and Loki leaves him to strip. Once he finds the lube he returns, footsteps loud rustle of sock against carpet pile. For a long moment, he appreciates how visual Steve is, watches muscles tense and ripple beneath faded tan as Steve hears (but cannot see) him return.

Beautiful.

Loki tries to be silent as he draws closer, kneels down between Steve's legs and drinks in the sound of choked gasp as Loki presses butterfly soft kisses along the inside of his thighs, one hand sliding up and grasping Steve's erection as he slips an already slicked finger inside. He waits hardly a moment before adding a second, impatient (he wants Steve _now_ , wants his noise and feel and warmth all around, wants Steve to _hear_ and _feel_ as well).

(Loki knows he should be more patient, pace himself, but this is, he thinks, not about Steve so much as perhaps Steve understanding a little. Besides, Loki so rarely sees Steve like this, so deliciously _vulnerable_ (and to think someone would rely so solely on sight)).

Loki does not undress—fabric on skin noise is too attractive, sexual the way the slick wet spread of Steve is; combined his head is dizzy and spinning drunk. He leans up, presses kisses to Steve's chest. Steve's groan is deep d-flat as Loki nips hardened nipple, flicks his tongue as his fingers press and search for that oh so human key.

Steve arches up soundless as Loki finds it. Loki keeps pressing, increasing tempo ( _andante_ ) and count (three), sucks and licks and leaves wet sounds trailing the air as he feasts.

 _More_.

His hands betray his dizziness as he gets his cock free of all these clothes, slicks himself and nearly falls on top of Steve when Steve blind fumbles and grips him with one hand, pleased murmur escaping his lips (and words are so _distant_ right now). He digs his hands into Steve's hips, crescent shaped marks and bruises blooming, he does not _care_ , Steve is making this oh so maddening noise, low and coaching and needy, hand guiding Loki against- _in_ and Loki growls and bites his bottom lip. Presses in hard and fast and stops, buried deep in warmth and pulse and _sound_ :

Steve's breath, hard and fast against his shoulder, ragged, thud-brush of flesh on carpet, pulse wild and pounding dark against his own slightly off-step pulsebeat, drag of skin on cloth as Steve hooks his legs tight around Loki and groans deeper more press down _drown_

fumbles, grasps Steve's hair, kisses him insensate, wet on wet on flesh on fabric on carpet on carpet, stuttering drunken waltz hip stutter-snap ragged breath groaning blindness and sound and _heat_ white noise pressure building, building, crescendo pressure _yes_

a single glorious pause (rest), silence and safe darkness

He collapses shaking on top of Steve, disoriented, wet and hot, sweat soaking his clothing and more besides, damp slicking his lip and chin, lays there listening to that heartbeat

( _one_ -two-three- _four_ one- _two_ -three-four _one_ -two- _three_ -four)

and sighs, pushes the scarf turned blindfold off Steve's face.

Steve blinks at sudden sight, looks at him. Frowns a little and thumbs Loki's lip—it comes away crimson and stings. Blood then. Loki finds he does not care. Only cares for uneven breath and heartbeat pulse against broad chest, for the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eventually, they move, shower hiss wet on skin, then curl up in warmth: blankets on flannel on skin and bone weight. Sleep comes—

silence

heart

(one-two-three-four one-two-three-four one-two-three...


	4. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other half of my election that didn't go terrible celebration; this one is for you guys, and is the balm I'm looking for my kind of soured mood. Hopefully it's just hunger, I've got a homemade pizza in the oven.

**Dreams**

The wind howling, screaming, everything wet and cold and storms. He has to get this right and they can't stay in the air. The bottom of the ocean is better than the cube falling back to HYDRA, and it's not like he has much waiting back home.

Thunder crashes—

Steve starts awake. Next to him, Loki stirs, inquisitive noise as he half-twists over to look at Steve.

"Bad dream," he says, reaching over to stroke Loki's hair. Pthalo Blue-Green eyes slip closed again as Loki relaxes back into sleep.

He watches the way the light shifts on Loki's pale skin, the sleep exhausted rise and fall of his chest his only movement. His hair is damp against Steve's fingers from the shower just before bed.

Steve closes his eyes. Images of Bucky and Peggy, the Colonel and Dr. Erskine, Howard Stark and all the dreams he's had to let go (are still letting go) rise unbidden.

Outside, thunder rumbles, some reminder of that last night.

Loki makes a muffled noise into his pillow, rolls over and curls around Steve, face pressed into Steve's side, before he goes still again.

Steve lets the past go, grounds himself on the sight of Loki—so much a reminder and anchor of _now_ , of all the ways he's moved on. He brushes his fingers along Loki's spine, watches the slight flutter of Loki's lashes, listens to Loki's breath and for a little while forgets rain and distant thunder and old memories.

XXXXXX

Steve likes his cell phone.

It's convenient, he generally understands how it works, and he's even mostly managed to train people to text instead of call, since most the people who have the number are really just the team. And since they're only supposed to call for emergencies, it usually works out that he can use it as an alarm.

Which is why he is currently scrabbling to pick it up after knocking it off the bed stand, just barely managing to answer and no idea who's called or what's going on.

"Rogers," he says muzzily, head still catching up with instinct, heart thudding and ready to spring to action.

"Did I wake you?" Loki.

Steve blinks and starts to relax a little when he sees the clock. It's just past three in the morning and Loki is in St. Louis.

Loki rarely calls, and Steve is pretty sure he never has while out of town.

"Steve?"

"I'm here." He leans back on the bed. "What is it?" It must be incredibly important. Steve hopes everything is okay, that Loki hasn't ended up in a fight or at the hospital.

"I was scheduling something and cannot remember when Lethe's gallery opens. Is it the sixteenth or seventeenth?"

Steve blinks.

"Steve?"

"I'm checking," Steve lies, brow furrowing as he stares at the ceiling. He runs a hand through his hair and gives an experimental tug-it hurts, so definitely awake. Loki just called from halfway across the country at three in the morning to ask about an event he told Steve about in the first place.

Huh.

"Seventeenth. You do realize it's three am, right?"

"Two, technically."

"Okay, well it's three here. Can it not wait?"

Loki huffs and suddenly Steve actually _hears_ the tense not-quite-tremour in how Loki's been saying his name, the near hesitance.

"No," Loki says firmly. "I needed to hear."

"Hey, no need to get upset."

"I am not upset. I'm _fine_."

Steve smiles sadly to himself. A nightmare maybe, or maybe not able to sleep in the first place. He's not sure and he won't be able to ask and get a proper answer.

At least Loki called.

"How's St. Louis?"

"It is... different. A number of sirens."

"There are sirens here."

Loki hums. Steve can hear the rustle of blankets, brush of fabric against the phone as Loki shifts. Probably a nightmare then, if Loki's in bed. He wishes he could pull Loki into his arms; Steve is certainly familiar with old nightmares.

(And it might be ugly, but sometimes he's glad Loki has nightmares. It means he's not nearly so terrible as he seemed at first.)

"Steve?"

"Still awake. Sorry. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and I'm still used to getting sleep whenever I've got a second. You know?"

"Yes."

(And he does, isn't just saying it like someone else might. Maybe once a prince, but Loki's fought his fair share of battles he never speaks of, if Thor's tales are anything to go by.)

"Anything else you need to know?"

"I. No. I do not believe so. Only..."

Steve waits.

"Steve?"

"I'm here, Loki."

"Do you have any stories?"

"You ever hear about Snow White?"

"No."

So Steve talks. He tells him about the step-mother and her beauty, the woods and the dwarves. He lets his voice take on a steady rhythm until Loki's breath is an even and slow thing; he can close his eyes and picture Loki, curled on his side, one foot likely dangling off the bed as he usually does, eyes half-closed.

He understands this.

"Loki," he says gently. Loki's breath stutters, a half-noise. "You need anything else?"

"Mmm... no. Love you." Loki's voice is soft and slurred, all the warmth that is usually hidden temporarily audible.

"Love you, too, Loki. Get some rest."

Loki hums and then they hang up. Steve stares up at the ceiling for a few more minutes, phone on his stomach, wishing he could be there instead of here.

In the morning, he has a text from Loki.

 _It is the 16th at 8, liar. Thank you_.


	5. Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling some food!feels tonight. See, I uh made a chocolate cake.
> 
> And then I broke it getting it out of the pan D:
> 
> Then I ate the ruined guts (about two normal slices?) with three scoops of local cookies n cream ice cream.
> 
> Now I feel kind of sick. I don't eat that much sugar in one sitting very often. (it was worth it)
> 
> But I kind of feel like something sweet to read wouldn't be so bad, so here we are. Rating-wise this one is general.
> 
> This actually sits between "Just a Fever" and "You're Like Charcoal", though obviously that's not so important that everything is ruined forever. (all the really major chrono things I've got planned so that you guys get those in the right order).

**Food**

Loki enjoys food. He always has.

( _Before_ , in another time, people believed it his use of magic that made him eat so much. Perhaps-it certainly never left him feeling full-but most of all it was just the joy of _eating_.)

There is something... erotic to it. Sensual. The myriad flavours of the universe on offer, the interplay of that fat with this spice, the intriguing feel of different textures on the tongue. The implied intimacy and trust of eating someone else's cooking (not to mention the _emotion_ in a meal prepared for or by someone loved) that still makes his heart flutter occasionally when he thinks of it.

(If he could quiet his mind, he imagines he would enjoy cooking; as is, he has never had much luck with that, nor was he ever skilled at alchemy, its closest kin he knows.)

More, he has always been surrounded by food, has sampled every dish Asgard, Alfheim, Vanaheim, and Helheim offer, and never truly gone hungry (but for a fall, a very long fall, and the landing after; he prefers not to think on it).

It only makes him more appreciative that not only can Steve cook, he _enjoys_ cooking. Loves to experiment with new cuisine and flavour, will stand thoughtfully in the kitchen tasting a new dish, uses the plate like a canvas to present food even when it is only the two of them. If the only thing that Steve truly desires is that everything be eaten, well, Loki has little issue with it.

He has always enjoyed food.

XXXXXX

They are at their coffee shop. Steve is talking, telling Loki about a new exhibit at the Metropolitan art center; Loki has his eyes half-closed, listening to the particular rhythm and key of Steve's voice in his excitement (a tendency towards b-flat today, reminding him of dark clarinet warmth), a hand curled around his mug. He watches as Steve breaks apart one of the cookies into fourths, carefully arranging them around his own saucer, then eats one.

Steve always does this, when eating cookies.

Loki has no idea why, only finds it endearing in some way. As if savouring, or making more where there are few.

Steve pauses talking to eat another fourth of cookie.

"I love you," Loki says, smiling slightly.

Steve looks startled, then a grin spreads over his features, eyes shining.

XXXXXX

Eating has always been an innately social activity to Loki. Few meals in Asgard are ever taken alone, and even though he has generally been called unsociable and a hermit there, here he finds that he is near stir-crazy with how little people interact at meals. Usually, he wanders the 52nd street market at lunch, surrounded by people and finding some small comfort in the familiarity. Dinner, largest and most social meal of Asgard, he often ends up dining with only one or two others; the change is jarring sometimes.

(It makes him... not miss, but... get a little nostalgic.)

Restaurants offer some small balm, with their small groups of people quietly discussing and living. Enjoys the chance to watch them go about their lives, all these small dramas played out, and it is rare that his own meal gets interrupted as he watches (and that is, at least, _better_ than ho—before.)

Steve, though, is almost distressed by eating at restaurants. His smile grows forced at the edges when a meal closes, food left uneaten; Loki is not sure _why_. There is always so much food when out that it is far more sensible to only sample, to enjoy _everything_ , not unlike at feasts. He would think it a Midgardian trait, but no one else he dines with regularly seems to have quite the same issue.

They favour restaurants with small portions or single courses when they go out together.

XXXXXX

It is near the end of the week.

Steve is sorting through his fridge while Loki watches at the counter, examining sell-by-dates and vegetables. There is a slowly growing pile of things that need to be used soon, before they go bad.

"I have a performance in Chicago in a few weeks," Loki tells him. "I'll be away part of September for rehearsals and then a weekend in October for the performance."

Steve nods, closes the fridge door, and starts to sort the assorted items on the counter into possible dishes.

"That sounds fun. I'll get you a camera before you go this time. What are you performing?"

"Oh, nothing you'd like." Loki frowns briefly. "I still need to give you music from the sixties, do I not?"

"No rush." He smiles at Loki and leans over for a quick kiss. "Let me know when you're leaving for sure. Want to help with dinner?"

Loki eyes some of the things that need cutting. That, at least, he has little problem with; Steve certainly seems to admire and appreciate his skill with a knife, and he finds it a little soothing, occasionally, when his head is thick with sound.

"Yes," he says.

XXXXXX

He 'catches cold.' (He thinks that is the right phrase, but has learned that sometimes Steve is not the best source to learn phrase from.)

Suddenly he does not want to eat anything.

(He hates it, hates knowing Steve will be disappointed when he does not eat everything, knowing that Steve will notice this change.)

Nothing tastes right.

(Knowing his body can betray him, and that this is somehow normal, something humans have lived with since they first came into existence.)

He makes some small effort around Steve, but otherwise avoids food. Buys less, eats less (though he does not stop wandering at lunch, does not stop eating out). The smell of food makes him feel nauseous sometimes, body conspiring to remind him that as much as he _enjoys_ food it is also a _need_ now.

Eventually, he forgets a little, what the ache of every muscle and sore throat felt like.

(Steve does not ask, despite his every expectation he will.)

Eventually, the last of the fatigue fades.

(He is not sure how he feels about that. Disappointed?)

Eventually, things taste right again.


	6. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people should probably communicate better. Just saying. Other people should be a bit more aware they need to prod.
> 
> Rating: explicit
> 
> warnings: erm, rough. Definitely rough sex, blood, lots of internal distress. Things are naturally not staying entirely happy with so many things left unaddressed.

Loki is not sure that he actually likes autumn. It is all golds, chill, and slightly damp; it is herald of winter (which he has not missed) and has just enough to remind of Asgard to keep him from recommending it.

(Midgard's apples, however, are brilliant, better by far than Asgard's, in flavours of all sorts and types, a vast array of colours and textures and scents, and some days he actually feels like he may have eaten too much for sampling all the treats they are used for, and that before considering the simple pleasure of eating them raw.)

Not to mention all these… these… festivities (apple harvest, selecting a pumpkin, carving the pumpkin, creating costumes, making pies, raking leaves, jumping in said leaves (and that had been enjoyable, if useless), on and on; it's a miracle mortals get anything done and stunning how much they _do_ get done). It feels most days as if he is being buffeted about like one of the newly loosed leaves, from one thing to another, one person to another, dizzying and exhausting and infuriating all at once. He has no choice, no voice, and even were he to give life to this displeasure nothing would change.

(It puts him in the mood he cut Sif's hair off in.)

It leaves a sour buzzing irritation in his mouth, a rising dissonant swell that grates along his nerves and mind. He is waiting for it to fall apart entirely; for now, though, it blends with fading glow and glory and leaves him sick.

(His hands itch for shears.)

XXXXXX

Olek arrives to coffee with the exact sort of grin that indicates he is going to suggest something Loki will need refuse (at least Olek listens, though it requires a certain firmness to get across on occasion).

"I am throwing a costume party!" The Russian announces cheerfully, sprawling into his seat. "Steve has said he will come, so I know you shall as well. And you will both be in costume! It shall be most magnificent!"

Loki frowns crossly at Olek and takes a (should-be) calming sip of his mint mocha. The other irritating thing, he has discovered, is that those that know assume that he will do everything with Steve—that if one agrees the other, perforce, also does. (While this is true to some extent, it does not bother him less.)

(He misses being alone with his nightmares, where he does not need to worry someone will see.)

"Oh, come Luke, what troubles you? I know that you and Lethe have been making masks together!" Olek grins. "This will give you chance to wear it!"

"I do not need a reason to wear it," Loki mutters darkly.

"Fine, fine, but wouldn't you like to go to an event where everyone else is more honest in their masks as well?"

Loki considers this. (Everyone lies, everyone wears masks; these are central truths of his world. And the thought of a party where people are at least honest about this is appealing, though he knows no one will but Olek would describe it as such.)

"I suppose that may be worthwhile," Loki at last allows. "When is it?" (He is not secretly hoping it is the weekend he will be in Chicago for a performance. Not at all.)

"Why, Halloween, of course!"

Loki has no idea what date that is, but at least he can find that out.

"Right. I shall think about it."

XXXXXX

Really, there is very little thinking involved. It is not the weekend he has to go to Chicago. Steve is going and thinks it very natural that Loki needs to attend a proper costume party on Midgard (and, really, if anyone knows what is best for him, he supposes it is Steve)(it lets Loki... not sleep (because that is always restless) but get by at night), Olek will be wounded if Loki changes his mind, and he supposes that he has, in fact, spent some time making a mask with Lethe and creating a costume around it will not be difficult.

It isn't that Loki dislikes masquerades. In fact, he has always had a soft spot for them ever since he was very young.

Just… he wishes he had even the illusion of choice in the matter.

(He breaks a coffee mug that morning in the kitchen, slices his hand open red and bleeding on the ceramic; stands there in his pajamas and robe and tries to remember how to breathe, shaking, buzzing irritation in his head and rising discordant symphony of emotion pressing behind his eyes.)

(This is alright. This does not matter. His voice is not worthwhile. His opinion has always been second. This is alright.)

(Later, he wipes splash of crimson off the counter, tosses out the broken pieces of mug, and then proceeds about his day, ignoring the aching bite of the cut deep in his palm, covered by gauze and bleeding anew because he has no time nor patience to deal with this reminder of his weakness.)

XXXXXX

He goes as a mynah bird, all in black except for the bright splash of yellow at the crown. He suspects everyone shall mistake him for a raven.

He meets Steve and Lethe outside. She is dressed in warm creams, face half-hidden by her moth's mask; Steve has allowed Olek to convince him to go as a 40s-style detective (he had tried to get Loki to match, but Loki drew the line at that; he might have little say about these situations, but he will absolutely not match).

"Are you okay?" Steve asks him, blue eyes brilliant against the charcoals and blacks of his outfit.

Loki smiles (forcing smiles is an art he had thought he might, one day, be able to let go, but that day seems very far away right now). Lethe is watching him curiously (he may have borrowed the gauze that wraps around his hand from her).

"Yes." He settles the black and yellow mask on his face, the feathers tickling at his skin (it irritates, where usually he would find it amusing). "Perfectly so. Shall we?"

(He wishes he had a choice in all this.)

(He wishes he were staying at home, alone but for his violin (nevermind his hand would bleed more) and melodies to distract.)

Steve grins at him, wide and open and easy, still as honest as ever. He kisses Loki's fingertips, then they head off towards the bar Olek has rented out for the evening, hands laced together.

(It is almost enough to make him quell his irritation.)

(It makes him a little sick, that smile, and how no one has noticed.)

(He wishes he had a choice.)

XXXXXX

The party is pleasant enough; he is surprised, perhaps, that he knows so many as he does. Shortly after arriving, he wanders away from Steve with a drink in hand (he does not know what it is, only Olek pressed it into his hands and seems to think he will enjoy it (he has yet to take a drink; he did not see it made and old habits are difficult to put aside)).

It is not unlike any other masque he has ever attended. People stand and talk, a few dance (or the Midgardian approximation, which seems more interested in self-movement than any dance Loki knows), and in general people are in high spirits. It is peaceful in its own way.

(His hands ache.)

(He wants to break something, _anything_ , because that at least is a choice that cannot be taken from him.)

"Hi," a young woman says to him, smile equal parts wide and shy. Loki notes the jealous frown of someone a few feet away.

"Hello," he purrs, smiling back and stepping closer to her, and, though the music is not quite loud enough to justify it, leaning close to speak by her ear. "I'm Luke. And you?"

"Becca," she giggles. "You have a great accent. British?"

Loki ignores how close she presses, how she smells of alcohol, how he has no real interest in her beyond the openly hostile gaze of someone he suspects is her boyfriend a few feet away.

"Yes," he purrs. "Just visiting the country for a time; any suggestions on what to do?"

XXXXXX

"Are you okay?"

Steve is knelt by apparently-Nick; Loki is _fine_ , blood alive and tension eased ever so slightly. He refrains from bouncing on the balls of his feet and grins like a wolf where Steve cannot see him. Nick nods to Steve's questions, a sleeve pressed to his bloody nose, eying Loki with something not unlike fear.

Steve glances back at Loki; he makes himself look suitably somber, upset, and offended. Steve frowns at him.

(But not because he senses any duplicity; Loki feels dizzy with affection for Steve and his trust.)

Once Steve is assured by apparently-Nick that everything is okay, _really_ , just a misunderstanding, Loki and Steve leave. (Lethe shall be walked home by other friends, otherwise Loki would need endure _more_ of this masque he has no desire to be at.)

"You didn't need to break his nose," Steve says on the way back. Loki takes his mask off and runs a hand through his hair.

"Instinct," Loki lies, easy as can be. "You should understand, you fight as well."

Steve sighs, but he nods because it's a lie founded in a measure of truth.

(Loki always, _always_ knows what to break (even when he does not))

"I just don't understand why he picked a fight in the first place. Are _you_ okay?"

"It is sweet how you think being human has made me any less capable in a fight." He smiles and kisses Steve's fingertips before lacing their hands together.

(It is wonderful, getting to do what he actually wanted.)

Steve frowns slightly, then shakes his head in bemusement. Loki grins wickedly.

(He still itches, head still hums, but it is bearable. Containable.)

"You're a natural troublemaker, aren't you?"

"Perhaps."

(He wants to _do_ something.)

They end up just inside the door of his apartment, Steve preparing to leave and return per a promise to Olek.

(Loki wants.)

"I'll see you later," Steve says. "Let me know if you—"

Loki kisses him. This, he decides as Steve makes a startled noise, this is what he _wants_. This will _do_. He cannot use his weight to pin Steve to the door, but footwork will suffice. Steve's hands slide possessively to his hips, slip beneath fabric to flesh.

(His head hums, dizzy cacophony and just out of reach noise.)

He bites down on Steve's lip, draws out a sharp and pained gasp, and digs his nails into smooth, perfect expanses of flesh. Steve's breath draws in as he tries to arch away from Loki's nails in his back, grabbing his hands to hold them still. Loki growls, grinds against Steve—he _wants_

(choice-agency-control)

and something of want (desperation) must bleed through, because instead of stopping or protesting pain, Steve kisses back, all urgency and heat and barely restrained strength, slides a hand into Loki's hair and pulls just this side of painful.

They don't make it past the living room; Steve stumbles back onto the couch and Loki straddles his hips. Steve strips his shirt off, nails like fire down his back, and Loki grips tight the back of Steve's neck, presses biting kisses to bruised lips.

"What do you want?" Steve asks, voice husky when Loki pulls back for a moment.

(and for a moment, a breath, it is safe to speak)

"I want," Loki murmurs, trailing kisses down Steve's neck as Steve leans his head back, nipping the tendon that stands out against the flesh, "you. To fuck me." He can _feel_ the shift and move of muscles, Steve's fingertips digging in and bruising his skin. "On my knees, in the floor, I want you to fuck me, until I'm exhausted, until you are spent." He bites down on the rapid flutter pulse that excites until he can taste the particular metallic tang of blood. "Until I cannot think."

(Until sharp jagged urgency _stops_.)

Steve pushes into him, picks him up as if he weighs nothing; Loki wraps his legs tight around his waist, eyes half-closing and tilting his head back as Steve kisses and marks his neck. His hands instinctively dig into Steve's shoulders as the world shifts dizzying (almost-falling (he _is not_ panicking)), then bare skin is pressed against carpet and Steve is knelt between his thighs, erections pressing together and friction nearly as maddening as his head.

"Fuck me," Loki growls, demanding

(knowing he can have this)

and Steve grunts before he leans back and undoes Loki's pants, tugging them off. The air is cold against his skin but his nerves are live-wire and electric as Steve's fingernails drag up the sides of his legs.

"Steve," he growls, grabbing hold of a fistful of Steve's hair, pulling his head up to claim another vicious kiss, licking blood off Steve's lips. He meets blue blue eyes. "Fuck—"

Words vanish as Steve runs his thumb along the head of Loki's cock, gathers precum and slicks down the shaft. He thrusts against the motion; their gazes break as Steve looks down, but it doesn't matter. Sensation enough to distract as Steve's hand works at him, enough for almost-silence and sensation build-up, Steve's other hand bruising his hips, pinning him down so he cannot move and he tries to find words again, to _demand_ , because this is not what he wants, what he wants is—

A slicked finger presses inside, two, and he tries to press down, caught between wanting to move into Steve's hand and down against his other. Steve shifts slightly, eyes still down. Sensation, friction, close, oh so close but not quite...

"More," and he is not begging, only so very very _close_.

Steve hums (oh _sinful_ hum) acknowledgement, draws his hands away, and Loki nearly screams in frustration before Steve is pushing him over. _Yes_ , yes, this is better—he moves with Steve, carpet rough against his knees and hands. He can hear Steve fumbling for something, then kisses pressed to his spine and down, three fingers pressing back in sudden, fingers slick, cold slick, and Loki shakes. Close, closer—noise whines in his throat as Steve presses against that particular key, teeth scraping down his spine. Steve's breath hitches and Loki whines again, braces himself and presses back against Steve.

"Steve," he begs,

(even this choice is frustration now)

then it's Steve pressing in, tenseness and gasping, Steve's fingers rubbing the small of his back to help him relax and he groans, head bowed.

_Yes_.

It nearly _hurts_ (the press of Steve's nails into his hips _does_ ), he wants _more_ and he near-sobs at Steve's slowness, his care; all Loki is is _want_.

"Faster, by the nine, Steve—"

the words nearly strangle him, sound of Steve's growl a shudder down his spine, in his head, ragged rough needy tempo of Steve, fast and hard and _hurt_ (but oh how he loves it, the best sort of hurt), drowning sensation that blocks out _everything_.

Steve's teeth dig sharp in his shoulder, a hand wrapping around his cock, and it all goes distant and too near, body shaking and betraying him; he grunts, bites his lip until it bleeds, white noise wave building building

(a different tension)

crashing.

Steve's voice is pleasant against his ear, soft and warm, palms of Steve's hands smoothing against his shaking and quivering, one hand sliding up along the wet mess on his stomach as support, but Steve is still moving inside him. Loki trembles, head spinning, arching into Steve's fluttery kisses, some reedy noise (his?) in the air. This is near too much, sawing along the edge of overload; a few minutes and his cock twitches again even as the rest of him aches and drips with sweat.

He leans down onto his elbows, forehead pressed to the floor, barely able to do more under the delicious feel of it all, pain and euphoria blending together. Steve's whispers and murmurs disappear to quickened, ragged breath, hands stroking and helping hold him up. Just at the edge of it all, all around the burred edges of reality, pressure-tension- _want_ of a different sort builds, pulses in time to Steve's quickening pace; his mouth and throat feel ragged dry, no words but knowing the pitch that makes Steve forget his strength for a moment, skin rubbed rough against the carpet in that precious space, until everything is nothing but heat and warmth and wet, everything one long and blessed silence.

(no tension, no want, no irritation, no helplessness. Just silence. Rest.)

Eventually, noise and thought trickle back in. Steve moves away. Loki rolls himself onto his back and blinks up at the blank white of the ceiling. He feels loose, relaxed, more at ease than he has in months

(some echo of that first night, months ago)

when Steve leans over and kisses him, slow and soft and _love_.

Loki smiles as he returns the kiss, finds one of Steve's hands and laces his own with it. Steve's eyes are lazy and happy; for a moment Loki feels _loved_.

(He holds it close, for when manic grating tension returns.)

"You were meant to return," Loki reminds him.

(But he won't mind now if Steve stays, just the two of them this night.)

"Mm. Maybe." Steve buries his face against Loki's neck, drapes himself against Loki's side. "I'll tell him I got lost."

"Steve, you go to that bar every Tuesday."

Steve chuckles against his skin. Loki shifts and then they are curled together, a tangle of limbs that isn't quite comfortable but certainly comforting.

"Didn't really want to go out tonight anyway," Steve admits. "But Olek always gets so disappointed, you know?"

"Indeed." Loki closes his eyes and breathes in Steve's scent.

"I love you."

"And I you."

Steve's smile is a warm curve against his skin.

(And if he feels a little rise of pressure at Steve's admitting to not wanting to go and dragging Loki with, it melts at the press of that smile.)


	7. Doing Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! I didn't abandon this! See! What happened was this: I posted last chapter and realized _this_ chapter needed to happen. But I hadn't written this chapter D:
> 
> So here we are.
> 
> This one is just over 6500 words; Steve is a slow-plodding creature, isn't he? That's the other reason it took so long to write this, his character is very slow, measured, and very hard to push to where I needed him to be for this chapter. So anyway. Here we go!
> 
> Warning: Abuse; there's no actual violence, but there's an argument, and there's some behaviour that could easily escalate to abuse or even be seen as abusive (use of strength over another) and which might trigger some people. There's also a lot of verbal abuse/spite that happens. I did tell you guys when they fight it's utterly vicious, didn't I?

Debriefing goes about as well as he expects: loud, full of arguing, Tony being late, and then finally the eventual somber quiet as everyone examines what they did. What they could have done better. They bounce things back and forth, until finally it's just circles, nothing new to say.

Two men were injured.

And Steve knows it wasn't his fault, knows that there wasn't a single thing more he could have done, but he still can't shove the guilt away. They were under his command, he's the one who gave the order for them to go in, and though it's not his fault that things panned out how they did, he can't help it.

"Hey, Cap."

Steve turns in the hallway, frowns at Clint. The archer claps him on the shoulder.

"Stop beating yourself up. You need a beer or something?"

"I can't get drunk," he points out (and _there_ is the guilt that comes with every interaction with Clint, who has no idea that he's dating Loki).

"Doesn't mean it can't help. Team building exercise. We can bill SHIELD for it. You don't have any plans tonight, right? I know you got that other life going on."

They've been gone for three days now. What Steve mostly wants is to go home and work out his stress alone, but... well, he hasn't really spent much time with Clint lately. He knows he's just trying to avoid him, trying to avoid dealing with the guilt, but he can't keep doing that.

Besides, even if it won't get him drunk a free beer doesn't sound half-bad. Clint will understand, does understand, the nature of men under his command getting hurt.

(Traitorously, he wonders if Loki would understand. He shoves the thought aside; Loki has said nothing of that time and Steve isn't going to let himself make assumptions. Not after hearing and seeing Loki shatter to speak of it.)

"Sure. Sure. Let me get changed."

He lets Clint pick the bar to go to—mostly because the only bar he goes to is with the guys, and the only _other_ bar he goes to is with Loki—and they slide into a booth. It's dark, kind of European pub style, not that Steve minds. No one pays them attention other than the waiter who takes their order. Sometimes, most the time, he's grateful he wears a mask and Clint is one of the least recognizable of the team.

The first beer they pass with small talk, Clint carrying most of the conversation. Steve decides he's getting something different next; this isn't bad, but he likes darker stouts more than he likes this pale thing Clint ordered him. He thumbs the label some.

"So what's got you so moody lately?"

"You mean other than two men getting injured today?"

"Yes, other than that. Stop playing coy. Something's been bugging you lately. I mean, you didn't even yell at Tony for being late today."

"Maybe I just realize he's always going to be late and there's not much I can do about it." Steve meets Clint's level gaze.

"That's bullshit and you know it." Clint shakes his head, pointing with his free hand. "Look, you didn't even make a face at me for swearing. I'm worried about you, dude. What's going on?"

Steve looks down at his bottle again.

"Nothing. Really."

"Aren't you the one always telling us that we shouldn't bottle things up?"

Steve scowls at Clint, who just flashes his cocksure grin.

"Fine. Fine, you win. Just. Give me a second to figure out what to say, okay? It's... it's complicated."

"Sure dude. Let me get us another round while you 'think.'"

Clint leaves, navigating his way to the bar, and Steve sighs. It feels wrong, to talk to Clint about this, because so much of what he's been bothered by is Loki. Well, not bothered _by_ so much as _over_ , because there's something wrong but he has no idea what or if he's just imagining it, because so much of the time Loki's smile comes quick and fast when asked, because sometimes Steve thinks he must be imagining a problem where there isn't one like he did with Loki's weight. It's not like he doesn't ask Loki if he's okay and Loki says he is. He wants to trust Loki, feels he's obliged to put a little faith in the man, if only because so far it seems to be helping.

Clint slides back into the booth, a beer in each hand, and hands one to Steve. Steve pushes the pale to the edge of the table and twists the cap off the new one.

"So?" Clint prompts when it becomes obvious Steve isn't going to just start talking.

It's not like he has to give details.

"So," he starts, then stops again.

"What's eatin' ya, Cap?"

"Look. Just promise me you won't get mad, okay?"

Clint blinks at him. It's unfair to make him promise, when he doesn't know the full scope, but Steve is hoping he doesn't find out for a while yet. If ever.

"Oooookay. What, did you kick a puppy? Turn down an autograph?"

"I'm seeing someone," he says in a rush. "And I'm just worried about them. I think something's wrong."

"And you thought I was gonna be mad about this?" Clint laughs. "Only you. Okay okay, this is serious, let me get serious; so why do you think something's wrong? She avoiding you? Arguing all the time? Acting different?"

"Kind of?"

Clint looks at him entirely unimpressed.

"You can memorize details of an enemy fortress on your first go-through and you can't even tell if the chick you're dating is acting different? Really?"

"Look, okay, so," he catches himself before he says 'he', "she's acting different. Yes. Just little things, right? She's more distracted lately, we've had an argument or two more than usual, but it's not big. It's not. It just _feels_ like something is off and I can't place it."

"You try talking to her?"

"Well, yeah. But she always says she's okay, and she smiles honest."

Clint frowns and Steve drinks half his beer in one go. He wishes that it would get him drunk. Or at least buzzed. It's not something he ever got to experience and it might help him relax some.

"I think he started a fight at the Halloween party I went to," he says absently, frowning a little. Loki had seemed nearly _relieved_ when they left the party, and maybe it was because he hadn't wanted to be there, but it had seemed a little more than that. He'd seen Loki leaning close to speak with a young woman, that particular smile on his lips he usually wore when he was about to cause a little mischief, and it hadn't been long after the fight had happened.

"'He?' Whose 'he?' I thought we were—" Clint cuts off, blinking. "Wait. You said 'them' earlier. Wait wait wait. Is 'she' a 'he'?"

"I don't see why that's important," Steve says, heart suddenly a lot louder in his ears.

"It's not, it's not, I just. Wow. Dude. You date a dude. Just didn't picture that."

"Well, don't. Keep it to yourself. Please." He crosses his arms and looks away, grinding his teeth. Dammit. He really is tired; he should have gone home instead of this.

"Hey, secret's safe with me. You just tell people when you're ready. No big deal, I told you. Anyway, you think he started a fight?"

And Steve is a little surprised that really does seem to be all that Clint's going to say about the fact he's dating a man. Huh.

"Yeah. He... well. He tries to start arguments sometimes, when he's stressed. He's got a bit of a temper. He's never started an actual physical fight before though. If he did, anyway." Steve wants to believe Loki didn't, no matter what that smile suggested. Benefit of the doubt. Loki wouldn't start a fight, not a physical fight, would he?

"You should probably try talking to him again. Tell him why you think something's wrong and ask what's bugging him. It'd be easier than trying to guess and fix it, ya know?" Clint takes a pull of his own beer. "I mean, this all sounds like little stuff that's adding up, so maybe he's just had a stressful week at work or something. Besides, we've been away a few days, maybe it was nothing. Just talk to him. Communicate, that's the key to a good relationship."

"I'll give it a go when I see him next. Thanks, Clint."

"See. Told you, team building, and we ain't paying for any of it." Clint grins. "So what's he _do_ anyway? He all super secret soldier? Military? Plain ol' office worker? You don't ever talk about your friends away from home, I want to know. You don't gotta tell me anything to let me find him, just, you know. How's he getting food on the table?"

"Well. He's not in the military. Or anything like that." He pauses a second more but he can at least give Clint this much. "He composes music. Performs it sometimes, he's been traveling a lot lately because of it."

"Oh, an artist, bout as far from the military as you could get huh? How'd you meet?"

"A mutual friend set us up for a lunch date. It started a little rocky, to tell the truth, but it's worked out. Really. He's pretty great." Steve can't help his smile. Even if he is worried about Loki, he still loves him, and it's not often he gets to talk about him either. Not like this.

"How about that. That's good. I'm happy for you, Cap, really. You've got this whole new life going for you, you've really managed to get yourself set up pretty well. Tony whined my ear off for weeks after you moved out of the tower, you know."

"Tony will whine anyone's ear off."

"Ain't that the truth."

They talk for a while longer, about the team, about what Clint's been doing in his off time (apparently he's decided to learn how to woodwork, mostly out of boredom), just aimless stuff they've both missed because Steve's been avoiding him. And maybe he does feel a little guilty when he finally heads home, but this time it's more that he avoided Clint for so long. He'll have to make sure to fix that; if he ever needs to explain _whom_ he's dating to Clint, he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

XXXXXX

Loki's supposed to still be out of town the next morning, so instead of calling and seeing if the other man wants to do anything he sends Loki a text, just to let him know he's back. He's still feeling pretty good from his talk with Clint the night before when he gets ready to go on his morning jog.

Steve knows he doesn't need to jog; he probably could get away with not doing any real training and still be fine. He likes it though, likes the steady rhythm and how he can let his mind go work on other things while the rest of him just puts one foot in front of the other. It's one of the few things no one else seems to want to do with him, creates a private space that he knows no one else will intrude on.

Not to mention he breaks fewer punching bags this way.

(Once, he'd asked Loki if he'd want to come with though he didn't really want the company; Loki's face had gone entirely unreadable for a few minutes, the room's temperature had dropped about five degrees, and Steve had been about ninety percent sure he'd shove his foot in his mouth though he didn't know how. Then Loki had sniffed and gone back to his morning coffee and book he was reading without bothering to answer. Steve hadn't asked again after that, had honestly been a little relieved.)

It's not often that his morning run leaves his mood more sour than when it started.

It's all little things really and Steve figures that a lot of it has to do with the fact he was already feeling out of sorts after the mission. He starts running and he's about a mile in when it starts to rain. Not rain, really, just this cold, grey drizzle that brings a chill with it that seeps deep into the bones before the drizzle even has chance to soak the clothes. He keeps running though, because he's not going to let a little damp keep him from running (a few bad memories keep him from living). He stops to help a girl catch her dog whose broken his leash and gets bitten for his trouble—not bad, the dog was just spooked and he's not bleeding or anything, but it's not exactly a mood improver.

On his way home, he decides to grab a cup of coffee and some pastries to try and ward off the chill—only he's forgotten it's Sunday and the place he likes to go best, that's fairly close to his apartment, is closed. Okay, then. Okay, that's fair, he doesn't have issue with that and he can just make this stuff at home anyway. He's about to walk into his apartment when he realizes actually, he _can't_ make this stuff: he's out of coffee and flour, which he'd forgotten since he's been gone for three days. He's debating if he really _really_ wants to have coffee and pastries, trying to push down his irritation because this is all little tiny things, no big deal, certainly not worth how angry he's starting to feel.

Then his phone rings.

He grits his teeth, pulls it out, and tries (fails) to keep his irritation out of his voice.

"Rogers."

"Is this a bad time?" Loki asks. He sounds tired, like he's half-asleep on his feet, voice a little soft and _almost_ mumbling.

"Oh. Loki. No. No. Sorry. Just been having a rough morning."

"Mmm, I see. Would you like to get breakfast?"

"Aren't you—"

"Earlier flight in," Loki interrupts, then _yawns_ over the phone and Steve feels his irritation melt a bit even though he hates being interrupted; he can't help it. Loki is so rarely anything less than put-together when he calls.

"Sure. Sure. I'd like that."

XXXXXX

They meet at a diner a few blocks from Loki's apartment. Steve's already feeling better, having got himself a shower and dressed a bit more appropriately for the weather, and even if Loki is probably going to go home and sleep after they eat, he's actually pretty glad to get to see him. It's the only unexpected surprise he's really liked today.

He had mentioned once a few weeks ago, when Loki returned from one of his performances, that he missed him while he was gone; Loki had blinked a bit, frowned like he did when something puzzled him, and then proceeded to call him a sentimental hypocrite. The memory makes him a little irritated; they'd ended up arguing and it turned out what Loki thought Steve was saying was Loki shouldn't go on these trips; Steve _still_ has no idea how Loki drew that conclusion from 'I miss you when you're gone' but he had. He suspects Loki still doesn't really believe him when he says that he really just means he missed Loki while he's gone, no more and no less, and so he just doesn't say it anymore.

Loki is attempting to stifle a yawn when Steve spots him, a hard suitcase by his feet and coat draped over his arm. He looks vaguely mussed, hair out of place and a little of it's natural wave creeping in, top of his shirt unbuttoned and slacks a little wrinkled. A lopsided smile touches his lips as he sees Steve; the hug and quick kiss in public are really all Steve needs to know that Loki missed him too, even if he won't say it.

They sit down near the back, the u-shaped booth Loki likes. The arrival of fresh coffee just aids Steve's mood. The waitress knows Loki and they spend a few minutes chatting amiably while Steve sips his coffee and watches. Grey and fogged morning light filters through in muzzy splashes, softening all Loki's sharp angles; he follows the gentle line of Loki's throat to his collarbone with his eyes, sweeps from there to his shoulders and suddenly wants nothing more than to spend the morning drawing Loki like this: soft, sleepy, slip of a smile on his face and eyes gentle.

It's so different from how he usually looks.

The waitress leaves. Loki is drinking hot chocolate, eyes scanning around the rest of the room before he finally looks at Steve again, meeting his gaze and some infinitesimal tension easing from his shoulders. Steve waits to speak until Loki's done this; he isn't really sure why Loki does it, only knows if he interrupts Loki while he's looking around, placing himself, that Loki tends to be more irritable. Steve's almost certain Loki doesn't realize he does it or what effect it has on his mood.

"How was your trip?" they ask at almost exactly the same time. Steve laughs; Loki chuckles.

"Good. It was good. Nice to be back," Steve says; he can't say more though sometimes he wants to.

"The same. The performances went well enough all evenings." Loki reaches over to his coat, riffling through the pockets, then tsks. "I got you a gift, though it appears I put it away properly. I'll give it to you later."

"You didn't have to."

"Nonsense."

"If you say so."

"I do." Loki leans against Steve's shoulder, just a little, and without thinking about it Steve slips his arm behind Loki's shoulders. He freezes for a second—Loki tends to dislike any display more than hand-holding in public—but Loki only hums (not the one that invariably leads to some sort of trouble), leaning closer and one hand resting on Steve's thigh. For a moment, Steve tries to do nothing more than enjoy the simple bliss this moment holds.

Naturally, that's when his phone rings.

Steve takes a deep breath, aching a bit as Loki moves away, then answers his phone. It's Coulson—there's something he's never asked Loki, if not killing Coulson was intentional—and they do need him to stop by, sooner rather than later; they have a few questions about his report. He can already hear the apology in Coulson's voice for the interruption. There's a low buzz of irritation in his head again, like he's trying to draw something in bad lighting.

"Work," he tells Loki, trying to keep his temper under wraps. "I have to go, but I shouldn't be heading out of town again yet. I'll be around later. Do you want me to call you when I'm free?"

Loki studies the smattering of other guests, both hands wrapped around his hot chocolate again.

"Just stop by. I will likely still be asleep."

Steve smiles a little.

"Right. I'll see you later."

He steals another quick kiss before he leaves.

XXXXXX

Two hours later he's managed to get free of the debriefing, and _naturally_ Tony wants to talk him right then about Steve's motorcycle, which Steve had pretty hesitantly let Tony tinker with. Steve smiles for Tony, listens, and confirms "yes, I really don't want you to paint it a new colour, Tony. No. The black is fine. Really." What he wants to do is explain to Tony he doesn't give a damn about the motorcycle, considering it's too chilly to ride it comfortably right now anyway, but he's fairly certain it's the first time Tony's been out of his lab all day so he sucks it up and rides the conversation out.

By the time he escapes Tony, it's been another hour and the drizzle has turned into a full-on downpour. He eyes it, sighs, and heads out.

XXXXXX

Even though Loki told him to stop by, he knocks on the door anyway before letting himself in. He figures Loki might be awake by then; Loki usually isn't given to sleeping the entire day even with traveling. The apartment is quiet as he hangs his coat up by the door, sliding his shoes off and toeing them over to the side. There's a little lamp light from the bedroom, so he heads that way.

Loki is asleep; one foot dangles over the side of the bed, the blankets pulled close around him, and a hand caught in the book he must have been reading right up until he fell asleep. Steve wonders when the last time Loki slept was—it's unusual for Loki to fall asleep with the lamp on, let alone while reading.

After looking for a few moments, he moves away from the door frame and very gently eases the book out of Loki's hand, making sure to mark his spot with the slip of ribbon Loki has for the purpose. He's careful about it, he knows he's careful about it, and Loki still starts awake, a hand flashing out to grab onto Steve's wrist before he's even fully awake.

If Loki were still a demigod, Steve suspects that he'd likely have a broken wrist right about now.

Steve doesn't try to pry Loki's hand away, just sets the book onto the bed stand with his other hand and waits on Loki's mind to catch up with the rest of him. Not for the first time, he's curious about what has Loki so trained to move this way when mostly asleep. Even during the war Steve was never this sensitive to slightest change around him while sleeping. It's not an Asgard thing—Thor certainly never nearly smashes anyone's head in when he's startled out of a nap. The only person he knows who wakes this way is Natasha; from what little he knows about her history, he doesn't like the implications that brings.

"Hey," Steve says softly as Loki's eyes focus a little.

Panic finally eases out of Loki's gaze, his grip on Steve's wrist relaxing. Loki buries his face in the pillow, drawing his foot in underneath the blankets.

"You startled me," Loki mumbles into the pillow.

"I didn't mean to wake you." He runs a hand through Loki's hair; Loki hums slightly. Content. Steve loves the noise of Loki's contentment, can understand a little of how much Loki takes pleasure in sound with it, and it eases a little of his irritation for how long it took to get here, for missing breakfast, for Tony and all the myriad surprises of his morning that didn't quite go the way he expected.

"Mm. I'm sure." Loki moves his face out of the pillow, looking up at Steve from the corner of his eye. "You should get in bed."

"I just woke up a few hours ago," Steve says, smiling a bit.

"And? You can rub my back."

Steve laughs, but Loki is looking at him, face all soft and open, eyes widened slightly so they catch the light just so, utterly beautiful. It's manipulative, planned, Steve knows it; Loki never wears that look unless he wants something. Steve thinks of the sound of Loki's contented hum, how it brightens his day to make his lover's a little brighter.

"My pants are wet."

Loki's smile is sharp, triumphant; they both know it's a token protest.

"Then take them off," Loki suggests in a way that sounds more like command.

Steve smiles, shaking his head, as Loki moves over so Steve can get in bed. Steve grabs the massage oil out of the bedstand, careful to avoid the knife Loki keeps there—and that's better than before, when Steve accidentally cut his hand on it one night because Loki _had_ been keeping it under his pillows. That had been an... _interesting_ evening.

"You should probably go back to sleep," Steve tells him a few minutes later, straddling Loki's waist and rubbing the oil into his hands to warm it before smoothing it down his spine. Loki shivers a little at the residual chill.

"I'm well. I'll sleep in a little while." Loki sighs as Steve begins to rub his shoulders. Loki's seven kinds of tense, and Steve frowns some as his fingers find multiple knots, some worse than other; Loki's rarely so tense even taking into consideration the performance and travel. He wonders what has Loki this way, tries to decide if his own being gone for a mission combined with the other two to make things this bad. Steve knows Loki gets worried about that, though he never says so.

Loki hisses and Steve stops, forcing his thoughts back to what's in front of him.

"Sorry," he says immediately; it's still easy to forget his strength though he does better by far these days.

"No harm," Loki mumbles, face buried back in one of the pillows.

Steve starts again, paying more attention to what his hands are doing this time. Loki hums appreciatively, and for a little while it's silence, the room lit by the warm glow of the lamp, Loki making the occasional pleased hum or sigh. He doesn't fall asleep, though Steve half-expects him to, slowly growing more and more supple and relaxed under Steve's hands. Steve leans down, pushing some of Loki's hair aside and kissing the top of his spine. He stays resting there, forehead resting against Loki's neck, and closes his eyes.

"I like this," he says softly. "with you like this." He runs his hand along Loki's spine gently.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Just relaxed." He stops to search for an appropriate word, though words have never really been his forte. "Soft." Loki tenses slightly under him at the word; Steve keeps rubbing along Loki's spine, small circles. "Smudged charcoal," he adds, because he knows Loki hears 'weak' when Steve says 'soft' unless he clarifies.

Loki relaxes again.

"Mmm."

They don't talk after that, though Loki still isn't falling asleep, half-humming some idle tune; Steve doesn't recognize it, not that that surprises him. He suspects it might be something Loki is making up as he goes, if only because he occasionally stops and goes back over sections, adjusting them slightly, before he adds to it. Steve lets his thoughts wander with it.

"Are you doing okay?" he finally asks; everything is so _relaxed_ right now. Maybe Clint is right. Maybe he _should_ just ask and actually tell Loki why he's been worried about him.

Loki mumbles something that sounds a bit like a pillow-muffled 'marvelous.'

Steve smiles, quick and small.

"That's good." He presses a kiss to Loki's neck. "You would tell me if things aren't, wouldn't you?"

Another muffled response. Steve wonders if Loki is drooling on the pillow, but he tends not to do that unless he's incredibly drunk and asleep.

"I love you."

Loki twists and Steve slides off him so Loki can roll over. Loki props himself up on one elbow, blinking lazily up at Steve.

"And I you." It doesn't bother Steve at all that how Loki says 'I love you too' doesn't involve the word. Not in the slightest. "What is it?" Loki sighs.

"What is what?"

"You want to talk about something. Yes?"

"That obvious?"

"I would not call it subtle," Loki says, smirking slightly.

"I just... well." Steve remembers Clint's advice again and takes a steadying breath. "I've just been worried about you lately. You've been distracted more often, don't smile quite the same. Well, it's the same, it's honest, but it's tighter than it usually is." He hesitates, then decides not to mention that he thinks Loki picked a fight at the Halloween party; no reason to accuse him of something he might not have done, not with how Loki's face has already gone blank. "Just little things."

"While your concern is appreciated, I am well. Truly." Loki reaches out and runs his hand lightly along Steve's forearm, smiling slightly. Steve frowns at him; the smile isn't honest, is similar to when Loki wants something—only in this case to have the subject dropped. He wonders if it's always worked on other people Loki's dealt with and if that's why Loki thinks Steve won't notice.

"What about all the time?"

"Pardon?"

"You're well right now. But what about yesterday? Or last week? In general, how are you, not just right now."

Loki rolls his eyes and goes to roll over.

"I am _well_ , Steve. You worry overmuch."

"Hey," Steve says, reaching out to stop Loki. Loki scowls at him. "Don't do that, don't just roll over. Look at me when you say that, don't just brush it off."

"I am well," Loki repeats, voice clipped, but his eyes won't meet Steve's.

"Fine?"

"I am fine." And then Loki's eyes meet his.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"No, you're not. What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I just told you—"

"Except you're not!" Loki startles into silence, staring at him. "You only say you're fine when you're really not. You won't look me in the eye and say you're well, which you do, you say you're well when you actually are. You just did it while we were talking."

"I think you're reading far too much into my word choice," Loki says, face neutral and closed off.

Steve can't help but laugh at that, that Loki would try to sell him that bridge. Loki's scowl darkens as he sits up.

"You're the one who pays attention to every single word I say, who hates the word 'soft' without it being clarified, and you are going to tell me that _I'm_ reading too much into your word choice? Really? Come on, Loki."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong," Loki says firmly, meeting Steve's eye.

"But things aren't well."

Loki's face flashes through a dozen emotions before it finally settles on a dangerous slip of a smile, eyes half-lidded. "As if you don't do the same."

"This isn't about me," Steve says stubbornly.

"Certainly it is. You won't believe me when I say things are well."

"Because you're lying!"

"And you do the same. Do you not? Never a word of complaint should someone need your aid, always off to the rescue, whether your morning is poor or not—"

"Stop it. This isn't about me, stop trying to make it about me. What the hell is bothering _you_?"

"Nothing!" Loki finally snaps, voice raised, eyes flashing. "I am _tired_ and you are not listening to me, only asking endless questions about my well-being. It is _touching_ , truly it is, but I have already told you—"

"That you're _fine_! Which means you aren't! And if you're so tired why did you even bother asking me stop by? Huh? You _know_ you always wake up at the slightest thing."

"Because I wanted to see you!" Loki's mouth snaps shut, his entire face going blank as new canvas, but his eyes still shine with all the emotions that for a split second showed on his face—anger, want, distress, loneliness, _need_. That expression, it's enough to make Steve want to stop this, to let it go, to shove his anger away and work it out later, because it's so _rare_ to see Loki so vulnerable. He reaches for Loki instinctively to comfort, and Loki knocks his hand away. "Don't," he snarls, voice cold restraint, "don't you _dare_ —"

Something snaps.

"Don't _what_?! One minute you want to see me, the next you don't, what? _What_?! What do you want me to do, Loki?" He clenches his hands tight into a fist, restrains hitting anything. "You want me to help and then you don't, you won't tell me when something is wrong, won't tell me what I can do to help, won't even tell me if I _can_ help! You won't just _say_ anything and I'm sick of it! Don't _do_ that! If I can't help just _tell_ me! You don't even need to tell me what's wrong!

"But no, no, that's not how you work, is it?" He laughs a little, shaky, bitter. "No, instead I ask and you twist things around so we just end up fighting, just like this, isn't that how it works? You're so damned scared to be seen as weak you won't just come out and _say something_." Angry, spiteful, he adds, "I'm shocked I ever manage to get close enough to learn anything, and from everything I can tell I notice more about you than anyone you've met; I have no idea how Thor ever picked anything up."

Even in the best of times and situations, mentioning anything about Thor is risky; Steve doesn't care. It's petty, low, meant to evoke reaction because he _hates_ how blank Loki goes, how he tries to pull away even as he demands Steve come closer.

Loki stares at him, eyes searching his face; his hands curl into fists, tension making him tremble, drawn tight and teeth gritting.

"You know _nothing_ ," Loki says, voice low.

"Yeah? That's not a surprise, is it? With how you don't—"

"Do _not_ tell me that I say _nothing!_ I say _more_ than enough, and you would _think_ for half a moment that you might _notice_ , with how you notice everything else, but you _don't_ , do you? No, no, not _you_ , not clever and perfect Steve Rogers, Captain America who has never made the _wrong_ choice, who is always such perfect leader than he never loses any men when he leads, none ever return injured, who _always_ knows what is best for _everyone else_ , isn't that _right_?"

He remembers the two men injured the day before, remembers Bucky, and something vile and _hurting_ aches in his chest.

"But it's not _true_ , is it?" Loki hisses, coming closer to Steve. "You _fail_ just as much as any, you aren't _perfect_ even as you tell yourself you are, you can't be, _not ever_ , so instead you _pretend_ at caring, don't you? You ask 'how are you, Loki' and then you don't _really_ care about the reason, you hear all the little things, see all the signs, but you tell yourself that is enough, that you need not do more, that—"

Steve grabs Loki by one arm, pulling him forward and puts his other hand over Loki's mouth. Closing his eyes, he resists every urge to punch the other man, to get him to just _shut up_. He grits his teeth, grinds them together, and focuses on the feel of Loki beneath his hands.

How still the other man has gone, the faint tremble just beneath the surface.

"Your smile has been tight, if honest. You're distant and distracted." He swallows and moves his hand away from Loki's mouth, but Loki doesn't try to speak in the silence. He forces himself to loosen his grip on Loki's arm, so that Loki can pull away if he wants; Steve is shaking. "You've needed to travel a lot this month, so you haven't been sleeping well. You're sleeping lighter—I couldn't even get the book away from you—but you've not been sleeping much, took you longer to orient yourself. Your stressed over something, you fight to release tension and I know you picked the fight at Olek's party. Something is _wrong_." He opens his eyes, feeling like he can breath again, like he's found some sort of center, some sort of almost-calm. "I am asking you, Loki. Right now. Here. There is something wrong and I care, so I want to help." Loki is trembling, eyes wet, some mix of anger-passion-confusion, searching over Steve's face. "Please. Tell me what I can do."

"Let me go," Loki finally whispers.

Steve does.

Silence settles again. Loki looks away; Steve doesn't let himself say anything else. Doesn't trust himself to say the right thing, to not make things worse.

In moments like these, he has no idea what Loki will do.

"Don't mention... before." Loki waves a hand, shoulders slumping, and Steve suddenly _sees_ how exhausted Loki is, how much it costs him to say even that.

"Okay. Is there anything else?"

Another long pause.

"Don't grab me like that again."

"I won't. I swear."

Loki's eyes flick up to him briefly, then away. As if he expected Steve to not promise; Steve feels sick. Once, doing that would have been laughable, hardly anything worth noting, like a puppy trying to tackle an elephant. He forgets himself still.

Forgets how little strength Loki has to push him away, and how utterly _aware_ Loki is of that in those moments Steve forgets.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, knowing it's not enough, that that one moment, that one impulsive, unrestrained burst of anger, is going to haunt him, and knows he deserves it. Hates himself for it.

Loki runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, eyes closing.

"I know," he murmurs. He laughs a little, humourless and helpless "I know you are. That you'll keep your promise. You are impossible."

Steve waits.

Loki opens his eyes to study Steve once more.

"It is why I love you," Loki tells him, honest, meeting his eyes.

"You just don't know how to turn away impossible things, do you?" It's better than telling Loki that he's not being impossible, only trying to be good, trying to make up for his mistake.

Loki smirks, like he knows what Steve thinks and he appreciates Steve humouring him. He might. Steve suspects Loki understands him far better than Steve understands Loki sometimes.

"Is there anything else?" Steve asks.

Loki hesitates again.

"I want to sleep," he finally says. "Preferably with you here, though—"

"I can stay," Steve interrupts, before Loki finishes, knowing that Loki will say something polite, something that really means 'I understand if you would rather not after all that, after what I said, what _I_ haven't apologized for.'

Relief flickers across Loki's face, eases the last of the tension left from the fight.

It's later, when Loki is asleep, curled on his side and pressed against Steve, Steve just looks at him. Running his hands through Loki's hair, he watches the way Loki's face tenses, the way his shoulders are already tightening; he doesn't need to reach under the pillows to know the hand underneath is twisting the fabric, can feel the fingertips resting on his stomach beginning to dig in.

_Don't mention... before_.

He sighs, gently nudges till Loki rolls over, waits the five minutes it takes before one foot is dangled off the bed, and then spoons himself to Loki's back, one arm firmly wrapped around Loki's waist so he doesn't worry the other man will fall. Loki doesn't stay boneless, but he doesn't tense nearly so much as he sleeps this time.

Steve presses a kiss to Loki's neck; when Loki begins to tense again, twitches and mumbles foreign words, Steve strokes Loki's stomach. Loki stills.

He listens to the rain and sometimes dozes; when he wakes, he watches and he thinks.


	8. Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? See?
> 
> Warning. I've got to write next chapter again. So expect some delay again. (Delay she says, like she doesn't update almost weekly)(I know I'm ridiculous shut up)
> 
> That said, I want you guys to just bask in the glory that is drunk Loki. He's a sweetheart. Yes, we'll see him like this again. Loki isn't really too familiar with human drinking tolerances, as it will soon become clear.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol

**Another**

"Ooooolek. Oooooooooooolek. Olek."

"Yes, Luke?"

Loki leans against the Russian as they walk down the street, stumbling. He does not remember the ground being quite so unstable on their way to the bar.

"You," he declares firmly, "are a boon companion. You would make a fine shield brother, Olek." He pauses, then stops walking entirely; Olek, however, does not have the grace to also stop and he is dragged along. The world spins dizzy (when did Midgard get knocked off its axis?) and then he manages to get mostly stable again. "That was quite rude of you. I was going to say something important."

"Of course you were, my friend. You always say important things."

"Exactly." Loki is not sure what his point is, but decides that it will return if he simply keeps talking. "Exactly so. I always say important things. Like how you are a fine companion. Finest in all the realms. Aha! Yes, do you know how to fight? You cannot be a fine shield brother if you do not know how to fight."

Olek stops and Loki wonders why he did, then stumbles against something. Ah. A door. Yes. They are returning to Olek's apartment, which is closer. He pats his pockets for the his keys.

"You are very drunk," Olek says, smiling and amused, opening the door. Loki realizes that he does not have a key to Olek's apartment and that the ones he holds in his hand would not be much use. He puts them away again.

"Hardly. I can drink much more than that!"

"I doubt that my friend. Come, let's get inside."

"Is there more drink?"

"Of course!"

"What are we celebrating again?"

"Who knows! But I'm sure we can think of something," Olek says, grinning (that grin is quite familiar), and pushes Loki inside. He forgives Olek, though, as Olek goes to his small kitchen and pulls a bottle of what looks like water out of the freezer. He wonders momentarily how it is still liquid as Olek pours two small glasses, but water does not sound so bad right now.

Perhaps there needs to be more water on Midgard, he thinks, so that it will stop wobbling so.

"To celebrating!" Olek cheers. Loki takes the small glass (really, how do Midgardians ever get drunk?) and tosses the drink back.

It _burns_.

He coughs, hacking for a few minutes, but some warm glow is spreading through the already pleasantly relaxed warmth in his chest (like Steve; his heart near fills to bursting at the thought of Steve, of that smile and those eyes and that _rich_ voice).

"That," he finally chokes out, "is not water."

"Of course not! We are celebrating still, are we not?"

Loki examines the small glass.

"Another," he says, setting the glass back down carefully. Midgardians do not break their cups; he can remember this much. "And I have decided what we are celebrating tonight."

"You have? Most excellent! You should share. And we should make haste to the living room, where there are seats and we can relax while we drink!"

Loki wobbles slowly after Olek to the living room, one hand along the wall. Olek seems much less bothered by the loss of stability. Perhaps this is a common thing on Midgard; he wonders how he has not encountered it before.

"We are celebrating," he starts, then stops, carefully lowering himself; little good it does—he gets tangled (he is much too tall right now) in his own limbs (traitors) and sprawls half-on the couch and half-off, tiny tiny (amusing) Midgardian glass carefully held aloft and away. The bottle of not-water Olek is holding clinks against the rim, Olek grinning at him.

"You are like a colt."

"Hardly." He shifts, sitting up; a little liquid sloshes over so he quickly drinks this glass too. It still burns, but at least he is not left sputtering this time. He lets his eyes drift half-closed, a smile tugging his lips, as he leans his head back.

This feels... nice. Relaxing.

"So what are we celebrating?"

"Ah! Yes." He sits up again, crawls half into Olek's lap, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him close. "You you you _bullying_ me into that lunch in March! The audacity, really, you are hardly fit to be called 'friend' some days, but that was quite good. Yes. I will concede that was very good."

Olek's grin widens, a hand carefully pushing Loki back to sit on the couch again; then the bottle is back in hand (he did not know Olek practices magic) refilling both their glasses.

"Steve, yes?"

Loki smiles, face hurting, coiling white warmth in his chest, and head full of all the sounds of Steve, flash of lovely blue eyes, feel and lines of his hands.

"Yes. Steve. Steve. How do I love he? Let me count the ways."

"That is not how that goes, Luke."

Loki sips at his drink; this one does not burn at all.

"Of course not. I am speaking _with_ you; I do not love you so. I am not sure I love you at all, friend or no."

Olek chokes on his own drink, laughing.

"You are ever frank, even when so drunk."

Loki sniffs.

"I told you I am hardly drunk. Why are these glasses so small? They seem hardly ef.. ef... effici—suited."

"Your stutter is exactly why."

Loki eyes Olek warily; he has no idea what stuttering has to do with drink size and does not doubt Olek would make fool of him. In Olek's apartment. Without an audience. Well.

Perhaps not.

"So you love Steve, eh? I was right? Yes? Yes. I told you. One lunch became _many_ lunches, did it not?"

Loki cannot even find anything in him to be angry with, all wrapped up in thoughts of Steve and fuzzy warmth of not-water, heart aching and euphoric. He hardly can remember when he last felt so at ease, so peaceful

(Lie, lie, he _can_ it involved a beach house and fudge and not-burnt food (he feels proud yet for that), involves that first _marvelous_ night, he had _no idea_ how _wonderful_ it would feel with Steve)

"You were quite right. I wonder, only, how did you convince he to see me?" He leans against Olek, looking up at him and pretending to be the picture of innocence for a moment.

"Oh, that was easy. He was quite interested in you, oh ink drawing—I hear you have been moved to charcoal now, though. And I told him you were like unto a god."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes. Divinity given flesh."

"Hmmmm," he hums, leaning up again. "I was you know." He takes a sip of the not-water.

"What?"

"A god. I suppose that does mean I am what you just said, that 'divinity given flesh' nonsense. You are really quite lyrical when you wish to be, aren't you?"

"I do try. Here, that sounds like it has been enough for you."

Olek tries to take his drink.

" _Do not_ ," Loki snarls, voice all command, momentary relaxation broken. Olek's hand freezes, his eyes searching Loki's face. Loki frowns at him, downs the drink, and then tosses the glass... somewhere. The world tilts a little and he does not feel quite so well. Noises are filtering in once more, car door somewhere, a cat yowling, quiet buzz hum of the light, his own pulse a little loud in his ears. He frowns again, focuses, searches for something, something—

Olek's hands are guiding him gentle to a bed. He blinks, unsure, but the pillows certainly look inviting (even if there are too few; he will never understand thinking two pillows enough).

Sudden push and then he blinks up at Olek, whose hands have pulled and settled blankets around him.

"You should sleep," Olek says, face serious (Loki wonders what is wrong). "I fear that I have given you much too much to drink. You are far too coherent when drunk, Luke, it makes it easy to miss."

Reflex and instinct more than anything let him reach out, grab fast to Olek's wrist as he tries to draw away.

"You do not believe me."

"Men can think funny things when they have had too much."

"No." Loki pushes himself to sitting once more, bats away Olek's hands when he tries to push him back down. "No, listen. You need to _listen_ , I am not lying, not this time, I am _not_." Something desperate filters through, that _someone_ believe him; it all seems a dream, distant, so easy to lose, and he cannot _cannot_ lose it, no matter how it _aches_. That sometimes, _sometimes_ , now that he does not see or hear from Steve everyday, now that every day is not filled with things he does not understand, he forgets that he is or ever was Loki, even as the nightmares devour his rest, even as the sight of gold filtered leaves reminds him of Asgard, even as standing near edges fills his head with star-flicker; as if it happened to _someone else_ and it terrifies him. He feels half mad, going mad, as if he has dreamed another life to replace one here. He grabs fast to Olek's shirt, tugging him down. "You must believe me, please. I know, I know that I am hardly trustworthy, I know that I ask _much_ , _more_ than I deserve, but you _must_ listen, please."

Olek kneels down carefully, gently pulling Loki's hands from his shirt, and meets his gaze.

"I..." Loki pauses, suddenly unsure.

"Luke, I am—"

"No no no. Not Luke. I am Loki." His hands are shaking; _he_ is shaking, violent tremours he cannot stop, no matter how much it horrifies him that he has such weakness in his bones. Olek's thumbs rub against the too thin skin of his wrists. This is _real_. Not dream. "I am Loki of Asgard, Odinson, Laufeyson, Skywalker, Silvertongue, Lie-smith. I have brought destruction here that it not touch my once-home, until this city lay in ruins, this city that is still damaged by my hand and deeds.

"I have tricked giant and dwarf alike. I have near outeaten wildfire in contest, have looked into the eyes of Nidhogg who chews the roots of Yggdrasil, have spoken with the head of Mimir and not gone mad. When I was young, I traveled this realm at Thor's side, left myth in our wake, tales whispered and spun into legend for no more than my amusement."

He pauses, but he still cannot stop shaking, cannot stop staring at his hands that are too frail, that do not call forth fire and illusion, _cannot_ call forth fire and illusion. Not any longer.

He feels a bird with its hollow bones, heart fluttering and head dizzy.

"Friggson," Olek says softly. It breaks some terrible curse, lets him lift his head to meet the Russian's eyes. "Son of Frigga. Luke means light, Loki is so close to fire. Why you didn't know anything of near anything when I first met you, why you so feared Ste—"

"I was not afraid!" he shouts, moving to push Olek; Olek's hands grip tight around his wrists, stopping his movement. He snarls, twisting, tugging, then they are tangled together as he gets a hand free and lashes out, until finally he is exhausted, dizzy sick, shaking and breath heaving in the floor and half-pinned. "I was not afraid," he whispers, closing his eyes and everything _spinning_. Olek loosens his hold and lets go; Loki sits slowly.

"I am not."

(Could not be, could not, because it is weakness and he _cannot_ be weak, cannot afford it, not with all else taken and nowhere to turn, he could not have been afraid then, there was no panic, no uncertainty, there is _not_ , no _fear_ of what will become of him now as he is so weak, so powerless, _no fear at all_ of what might happen should Steve ever tell—

A low cry fills the room, broken and shattered.

_His_.

And how he _hates_. Black bile that chokes his throat and makes him curl inward, hands gripping tight in his hair, wet hot warmth on his face, everything static white noise, grating _noise_ in his head, off-key and off-kilter, out of step, grinding _noise_ , and he _hates hates hates_ wants to _break destroy break_

( _this_ is the mood he cut Sif's hair in and his hands _itch_ )

( _pathetic weak mewling princess_ )

Hands grab and pull his down and away, before one settles at his neck, fingers pressed to the back and a thumb rubbing the side

( _he wishes they would just end it; it is why he let go_ )

and Olek's voice, steady and calm, a rhythm and tempo and meter that he can focus on outside the one that stutters in his head. He does not know the language, but it sounds nice enough, vowels that he enjoys. He closes his eyes, things drift, and suddenly, suddenly everything eases, tension snapped.

He is so, so _tired_.

"I am human now," he whispers. Olek stops speaking; he does not need open his eyes to know that Olek is watching him, is listening. "No magic. No fire. I can only walk where my feet take me and never again between realms. I will never see those halls again, not in this life. Treason, they said. They would have hanged me, gutted me, and instead they made me human." He opens his eyes, meets Olek's steady gaze he cannot read. "And I do not know if this is any better, any kindness, as my mother thought."

There is silence for a little while (both external and in his head, and he wishes it did not take this to achieve it).

"I do not know," Olek says slowly, "if I would call this kindness." He is frowning ever so slightly, more frown than Loki has ever seen him wear. "But I do think it is better than being dead. Come. You need rest and the floor is hardly the place to get it."

The bed is soft, not yet warm, and his eyes feel so heavy. All of him does.

"Olek," he slurs, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Yes?"

"'m sorry. For the city and the ruin. For this. You did not need know. Shouldn't've—"

Olek pats his shoulder, runs a hand quick through his hair.

"Nonsense. Do not worry. You have lost enough, and I have cursed you with Steve's undying loyalty. You are a good friend, Loki, only, I think, in need of some help. I shall see to it, never you fear. Rest."

"'lek."

It is so _hard_ to fight actual rest-silence.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

XXXXXX

He wakes at Steve's, head pounding dizzy, one foot dangling off the bed, Steve's arm wrapped tight around his middle and face buried in his neck.

He tries to remember the night before; recalls gods and not-water and some nameless rage, but cannot remember why or, more importantly, _what he said_.

He is so very _tired_ , though, and Steve's breath is so warm, Steve's weight so solid, Steve's arm so comforting

(he does not deserve him)

he closes his eyes again.

(If he said anything, surely Olek will act differently.)

He sleeps.


	9. The Space Between Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This one actually came out much better and faster than I expect it to. So that's nice.
> 
> Next story at some point; I've got to write it too. These two keep sneaking moments up on me. I swear after the next I'll finally be back in the buffer of moments that I've had written for ages.
> 
> **Warnings** : suicide-discussion of, around, and reflecting on someone's attempt at it. Also some rather painful brofeels.
> 
> **Timeline** : This happens in parallel with the chapter 8.

"So," Tony says conversationally, reaching across the table to get a roll, "what did you guys end up doing with your brother anyway?"

Every eye at the dinner table turns to Thor, conversation silencing. Thor shifts, his chair creaking, something dark in his face that Steve's never really seen before. Thor is usually quietly cheerful, occasionally somber but rarely does he look so... hurt. Like he's lost a part of himself.

Even though Steve knows where Loki is, actually knows that at this moment he's out with Olek for dinner and drinks, he is no less curious about what Thor will say. Loki had told Steve, once, that he is now human, but not much more than that. Not what that involved, if that would change at some unnamed future point.

"My brother has been dealt with, friends. You need not worry."

"That can't be all you're going to say. What, did you just slap him on the wrist or something?" Clint. Steve watches his face, but Clint's just curious right now, not angry.

Thor's face darkens.

"I will not have you ask when you do not have any true concern as to what has become of him You are my friends, and I am grateful to you for your aid, but you need not know more than that he has had judgement passed. You would not understand."

"Hey, we helped take the guy down, I think that gives us some 'concern' what his fate is," Clint fires back. Thor is glaring outright at them now.

"Now, guys, don't—"

"Oh, don't take his side, Cap, come on. You know you want to know too." Steve frowns at Clint.

"I think," Bruce interrupts before dinner escalates further, "that if Thor wants to tell us, he can. We'd appreciate knowing if there's a reason we need to worry about him causing more trouble, Thor. But we don't _have_ to know." The last bit Bruce directs at Clint. Clint scowls at him, but settles back.

"Yeah, what he said," Tony adds. Clint is openly pouting; usually when Clint and Tony take the same side on anything, they manage to get their way.

Thor hesitates, then looks at Natasha.

"And what say you?"

Natasha does her single shoulder shrug.

"He only tried to take over our planet."

Thor sighs, rubs his face, and finally, finally:

"Loki is human now."

Everyone else at the table looks around at each other; Steve keeps looking at Thor, though. Thor looks devastated, heart openly bleeding, electric blue eyes cast down to his hands.

"Huh," Bruce says.

"Mind like that, I imagine must not be too bad." Tony looks thoughtful; Steve doesn't doubt he's planning on starting to look through and make sure there aren't any new hotshots in his industry that match Loki's description, and is suddenly glad Loki works as a musician and composer.

"That's _it_?"

Steve looks at Clint. Clint's leaning forward a little, his face gone serious and angry, something brittle just beneath the surface. No matter how well he hides it, Clint still hates Loki, still can't let go of the what Loki did to him; it's so much of Steve's guilt.

Thor looks up.

"So what? You guys do some waiting around and he does something _worthy_ and then 'ta da!' Loki's an Asgardian again? How foolproof is that, because the fucker knows how to lie, or did you guys-"

"I told you you would not understand."

"Then explain better! _What do we not get?!_ After what he did to me, you guys just slap him on the wrist, that's it, just make him human for a little while, just like you, eh? He'll go find some pretty chick and-"

" _My brother is dead!_ " Thor shouts, fist slamming the table and static crackling in the room. Clint rocks back in his chair. In the silence, thunder rumbles, and through the window Steve can make out clouds roiling together. Thor closes his eyes, struggling to breathe.

He opens his eyes, looking down the table at them.

"I am not sorry," he begins, then stops. Breathes again.

"You don't need to be," Steve says. "What do you mean, though? I mean, if you don't mind explaining. You said he's human, and then you said he's dead. What are we missing, Thor?"

"It is not as my banishment was," Thor says, meeting Clint's gaze. "He has been stripped entirely of what made him Prince of Asgard-no magic, no might beyond what your kind have, stripped of his title and exiled permanently from the halls of Asgard. There is no deed he can perform that will reverse this. None of my people may seek him out in his life here, and any who do or dare try reverse his punishment are traitors, punishable by immediate execution. When he dies-and he will die-that is it. So will end Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard. He will not be reborn among our halls, he will not be reincarnated among your kind once more. He will be no more than whisper of story in your legends.

"He has been set on your realm to live a life that will end in a blink as Asgard measures it. Yet with his now human perception, this same time will be both too long and too short, a limbo of dying and yet not in a body that remembers what it is to walk the space between stars, to have fire at his fingertips, to have strength that could best a hundred foes single-handedly.

"Alone. Set here alone. And I cannot seek him out." Thor's face is etched with grief.

Clint looks away first.

Thor leaves.

Steve sits there, staring down for a few minutes. The rest of the team starts to talk again, but he can't hear it. Not really. _And he will die_.

Steve has no idea why it hasn't occurred to him before.

"Where are you going, Steve?"

"After him," he says over his shoulder.

Thor is on the roof of the tower, legs dangling over the edge of Tony's landing platform as he stares down. His hands are clasped before him and though he does not look up he still speaks as Steve comes near.

"It is not wise to be in my company now."

Steve sits beside him.

The wind is loud with the faint noise of traffic just beneath, and overhead he can hear airplanes, but otherwise it lacks the bustle he's used to now. Steve can't quite make out people walking on the street, but he can watch cars moving, their headlights a ribbon of white and taillights red thread, pulse-like. Loki, he thinks, would like it here; he seems to have some fascination for being high up and looking over railings.

"Why?" Steve finally asks.

Thor glances at him. Steve keeps looking between his feet at the city below.

"It seems cruel, to not give him a chance to redeem himself. Does he know?"

Thor shakes his head.

"No. He might, I imagine, have guessed as much. Mother was allowed to write him a note explaining, and though I doubt she said it outright, he has always picked up what she does not say." Thor looks back down. "You are the only one who seems to see it for what it is."

"I doubt it. Did you see Tony's face after you explained?"

Thor chuckles.

"Aye."

"You know he's probably not alone, right? That he's likely found people here who care about whoever he is now," Steve offers.

Thor doesn't say anything; Steve doesn't need him to. He already knows what Thor is thinking- _but they will not know what he was; he will not be able to speak of his past without seeming mad_. They sit together for a while longer, not talking. Eventually, Thor shifts, sighing.

"Thank you, Steve. You are a good man."

"It's nothing. Really." Steve hesitates. "What happened to him?"

Thor raises an eyebrow.

"Before. Before he showed up here. Why did he work with the Chitauri? What led him to that?"

Thor looks out over the city once more.

"I... I do not know the why. Not really. Only the very little he said before he was sentenced. Loki spoke of keeping Asgard safe, of a threat much greater than our home could face." Thor grimaces. "It was not his best told half-truth. He would not speak of why he tried to take your realm for his own, nor would he defend his actions from... before."

Steve nearly tells Thor that it sounds like he doesn't know much more than Steve; he catches himself. Other than Natasha, who has only said that she'll keep this to herself, none of them know about Loki. That Loki lives in New York, what he does, who he is, that Steve dates him. Remembering the look on Loki's face when they first met on their blind date, Steve keeps himself from saying anything. As much as he wants to tell Thor, it's not his place. He doesn't know if it ever will be.

He rubs his hands together.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better if he had not survived," Thor murmurs.

Steve blinks.

"What?"

"We thought him dead, when he arrived here on Midgard. And I do not know if it was better or worse to have the chance to have him back." Thor's eyes are distant, reliving memory.

"Thor," Steve asks, drawing Thor's attention back, "what do you mean you thought him dead? That he landed with the Chitauri?" Steve's mouth feels dry; this is not what Loki told him. Not truly. Loki had spoken only briefly of the Chitauri, implied it a poor choice he had made but one that was exactly that: a choice.

Made it sound as if he walked from Asgard and allied with them.

Thor is silent.

"Thor?"

"It is... it is not a kind tale of him. I know, now, what he discovered while I was banished. That is when it happened, while I was here, banished and learning."

"Would you tell me? I'll keep it to myself."

Thor smiles sadly.

"You would, would you not? You are a fine shield brother, Steve." Thor sighs heavily. "I was banished, you have heard of this yes?"

Steve nods.

"Well, my father, Odin, fell into what is called the Odinsleep-it is a period of regeneration, for when he grows weary. Since I was not there, my brother was made king until Father woke once more. I know, now, that before Father fell into the Odinsleep, Loki discovered his heritage and confronted him.

"Loki is adopted. My father brought him home after the war on Jotunheim, having found a child. We... neither of us knew this. We tell stories on Asgard of the Jotnar, scare children with tales of them, have fought many wars with them time and again. When I was a child, I would boast how I would hunt them all and slay them, though Father often said that I must not seek out war. I... I did not know, I tell myself that often, but it does not make it more excusable.

"Loki discovered that he is... was a Jotun. And before Father could say explain to Loki that he did not see Loki as Jotun, only his son, he collapsed."

Thor moves slightly, leaning forward, eyes distant. Steve feels something twisting inside him, to hear this-oh Loki had mentioned this, the war Thor had started with his recklessness, and his own attempts to do something to stop it, but Loki had said nothing of _this_.

"Loki would have been a good king," Thor finally continues, "in another time, when not all he knew as truth had been torn down. If he had chance to adjust to it, in a kingdom that had not just found itself in a war of his brother's doing. Most likely a better king than I would have made at the time. But instead he had found himself one of those we have fought so much of our lives, at war with that same kingdom, and all the responsibility of protecting his home on his shoulders. I returned to find him having just slain Laufey, Jotunheim's king, and in the process of destroying Jotunheim itself by using the Bifrost.

"He was so angry. I did not... I still do not understand the depth of his anger. I have seen him like that only a few times before, always just before shattering, weight of some great thing on his shoulders and too much to bear. Loki always would get so _angry_ when something bothered him."

Still gets so angry, Steve thinks numbly.

"We fought. I did not wish to fight him, only wished to stop what he was doing, only wished to keep him from destroying an entire people in his rage, but Loki has ever been best at knowing what is needed to coax fight forth. So we fought, until I pinned him under Mjolnir."

Steve looks at the sky. He remembers reading about the light from that night in the reports about Thor, about Thor's first visit in Steve's life time, and it hits him the sort of strength and Earth-shattering might Loki once had at his fingertips.

"The Bifrost had to be stopped. I broke it. The explosion sent both Loki and I off the remnants of the bridge; I reached for him. You understand that? Falling, without anything to hold onto, I reached for him. That is all I could think-I must not lose him. Not more, even after all he had done. I could not forget how much his eyes _ached_ , knew that something must have happened to drive him to such fury. I held one end of the spear, he the other. Not even able to reach _him_ , but he was there. He was holding on. My father had woken, and he grabbed hold of me."

Thor goes quiet again; Steve glances at him, sees tear tracks, and looks away again to give Thor some privacy. He can already see the shape of this, and doesn't like it.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"Us hanging over the Void, the space between the branches, where he would most certainly die, he let go. He fell.

"I saw it in his face, Steve. The moment he gave up, when he lost what last shred of hope was driving him.

"I saw. And I could not catch him. I could not reach him." Thor lets out a short, choppy breath, heavy with weight of repressed sob. "A part of me died that day."

It is nearly five minutes before Steve can bring himself to say anything, to ask anything.

"The.. this Void. How far a fall is it?"

"It is endless. Well, not. Clearly, look, he landed with the Chitauri and ruined your city." Thor gestures at the city beneath them, parts of it still slowly being repaired. "But I do not know how long he fell. I do not know when he arrived with the Chitauri. I do not know if they found him, or if he landed amongst them, though I suppose it makes little difference. It was two Midgardian years before he appeared once more, and time passes strangely in the Void. It could have been longer than two of Asgard's years if he were... less fortunate."

Steve thinks of Loki, leaned over the edge of their favourite rooftop cafe, peering at traffic below, some odd fascination in his eyes. How Loki seems to enjoy heights, and wonders if it's enjoyment so much as being able to see where he will land if he falls.

It makes Steve feel sick.

"I'm sorry," Steve tells Thor, honest.

Thor smiles wanly.

"Thank you."

They sit there in the quiet for a bit longer. It's cold out but it hasn't snowed yet. Steve watches the stars and wonders what it would be like to fall between them endlessly. Wonders what it is to want to end everything, to have lost hope.

(fears, sudden and sharp, that that hopelessness is still there, beneath the surface, and that Loki might let go again; remembers Bucky falling and not being able to grab him)

Selfishly, all Steve wants is to hold Loki, to kiss him, to find some way to show the other that he is wanted, loved, to reassure himself that Loki is alive, well, _not letting go_.

"Thor."

"Yes?"

"If you ever want to talk about him, you can. You know that right? I'll listen."

Thor regards him seriously, then his lips quirk a little.

"You are too kind, Steve."

Steve shrugs, looking down.

"It sounds like he wasn't himself when he showed up here. Not like you knew."

"Not at all. You might have enjoyed his company, I think, if I could have convinced him you were not like all my other companions." Thor stands, shaking off his grief though still melancholy. "I am going inside. I owe the others apology for my abrupt departure."

"Right. I'll be out here for a bit longer."

Once Thor is gone, Steve stares down, trying to process everything.

The thing is, it isn't as if he expected Loki to tell him everything or even the entire truth. Especially not the more he's grown to know the other man and realized just how little weakness Loki is willing to give away. That Loki had said as much as he did that one evening in the summer was far more 'weakness' than Loki would typically show, brought on by the stress of the day and worries that Steve would decide that Loki had been exactly like every other guy Steve fights who tries to take over the world. Steve has expected Loki to have done _worse_ than what he said, but no. That is the same; Loki had not hidden that his actions were not laudable, that he did many things in service of his kingdom that he thought best at the time but perhaps were not.

How much shatter-break _hurt_ that Loki has hidden though...

Even at his absolute worst, when he was so far down that it felt as if he were in some dark hole, Steve has never wanted to kill himself. The entire idea is foreign; Steve cannot imagine such a place. It frightens him, that Loki has been in such a place, that he might end up there again.

He remembers talking to Loki a few nights ago, the argument, and how Loki will not tell Steve what is wrong.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He reaches for it, then blinks. He's been chewing his thumbnail.

He hasn't done that in ages, not since his mother was sick and dying.

The text is from Olek, asking him to swing by and pick up Loki if it is not too much trouble; that Loki has been asking after him and they are both too drunk to get to Steve's themselves.

Steve hesitates a moment, then gets up, sending a response back as he walks.


	10. what if

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Things are Not Happy today. Next chapter is probably going to go up Friday and is equally Not Happy in a different way. But the good news is we are getting closer to having some actual progress! Wooooo. I like progress.
> 
> **Warnings:** This one comes covered in trigger warnings again. Body dysmorphia, past suicide attempt, suicidal urges, depression, self-harm, nightmares, ptsd, panic attack.

He presses his hands down on the bathroom counter, keeping his eyes closed tight. His breath shakes; he draws air in, holds, holds, holds.

(He does not know how long he fell, only that he could not breathe, that he did not need to breathe, magic burning and sustaining and wasting him away even as he clawed for somewhere to land, ache and star glimmer and darkness and vision swimming and silence nothing but eternal silence except what his mind crafted on its own, sound where there was none, sound he has not been able to _stop heari_ -

Air rushes out; he opens his eyes, breath coming in great ragged gasps, torn through him unwillingly and making his lungs feels afire. He cannot stop shaking; he raises his eyes and sees himself in the mirror.

Green eyes without flicker spark of magic in them stare back, face structure lacking the solidity of Aesir structure (even if that were a _lie_ ), skin too pale and flawed, damp black hair that sheens only brown and not the multi-hued colours of a raven's wing.

_What am I?_ he (weak thing) thinks involuntarily.

He presses a hand to his reflection's face, palm flat against the shower steamed surface. He cannot stop shaking but ignores it. This is not his body. It is not him shaking. It does not feel like his body, it cannot be his, he feels numb and sick and

(for a little while he did not know if he existed, just music he could not stop, _noise_ that would not stop, not until-

dark angry _hate_.

He snarls, drawing his hand back a short distance, closing it into a fist and slamming it into the mirror.

(did not know he was real until-

His hand explodes in pain, glass digging into his knuckles, warm wet blood and so very much pain, _realness_ , and whatever barrier between he and this body ( _not_ his) breaks, letting them overlap once more.

Not dream.

Not hallucination.

His head aches, throbs, sound of his breathing twisting with shards of mirror falling and tinkling in the sink and drum-thud-rhythm breathing, creating some dissonant symphony pattern he cannot _turn off_ , not since falling. He stumbles away from the sink, back hitting the wall, and he slides down it, studying the blood and shards of reflection in his fist, cradling it close with his other hand.

Something bubbles in his throat; he laughs. Some horrible broken sound, mixing with the rest of the _noise_ in his head. He thuds the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes, laughs and laughs and laughs, eyes squeezed shut. Hot wet tears slip down his face, but it is only because he laughs so, he thinks, no other reason. None at all.

He has no idea when laughter fades into sobs.

XXXXXX

Eventually, the knife edge ache dulls.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks him, eyes concerned and serious.

"I am well," Loki lies, meeting Steve's eyes as he says it.

Steve frowns at him, opens his mouth as if to contradict, then nods.

"Okay."

(He wants to lash out; he feels trapped and distant.)

He smiles at Steve, leans in for a kiss, and under the table where Steve cannot see, presses tight against the cuts on his hand, until they bleed into the bandages and sting with sharp pain

(everything snaps back into place, but he still wants to scream, to _break_ )

and stays there, forehead pressed to Steve's, eyes closed.

For a moment, things feel solid.

(for a moment, he thinks that he could say something to Steve, admit that _no this is not well I am not well I am not help me_ _ **please**_ —

Steve's hand rests against his neck, warmth and callouses, trust and love and everything _good_.

—except it is _weakness_ and he is not, _cannot_ , be weak. He _is_ well. He is Loki of... where?)

He pulls away, keeps the bandaged hand beneath the table, and looks at the rest of the restaurant. Quiet. Mostly empty because it is late, because Steve had been away,

( _what if something happens to him_ , his mind whispers insidiously)

and though Loki is not hungry Steve is.

( _nothing_ , he wants to say, wants to believe, _nothing because I do not need him I do not I do not there are other things to hold onto_ )

Steve is talking. Loki cannot hear him; there is too much noise in his head, swirling and reshaping itself into music that he only wants to silence.

( _what else?_ )

He digs his nails into one of the larger cuts until it flares bright and white and _grounding_. He can't help but hiss at the pain, clearer than any he remembers feeling before.

Steve stops talking.

"Knocked my hand," Loki explains, smiling half-heartedly.

XXXXXX

Everything fades to grey

("Are you okay?" )

routine and schedule,

("How are you?")

drifting without anything from one thing to another,

("Is everything alright?")

hands fumbling through the motions

("Are things good?")

and mind a thousand miles away.

XXXXXX

"Are you well?"

"Stop asking me that!" he snaps, nearly healed hand slamming palm down on the table, sting of skin helping bring things into focus.

Startled brown eyes meet his.

Olek.

It's like waking. Suddenly _sound_ floods in, music stopping and becoming nothing more than the noise of the crowd in the coffee shop, cars outside, sound of rain and... _life_. Not music. Not endless orchestration punctuated by question.

"Luke?" Olek asks carefully.

He (Loki, he _is_ Loki, this is his body now) blinks. His nerves feel raw, scraped over, and he swallows.

He has no idea what day it is.

He glances around the coffee shop, at school bags and purses and coats, at scarves that trail their ends on the ground, at people who laugh and talk, who slouch and read books, at light bouncing off fly-away strands of hair, steam rising off mugs, the line that hovers by the counter, and _actually sees them_.

There is snow outside. A thin thin dusting. It is melting.

He looks back at Olek, Olek who is watching him, face serious. Concern twitches one corner of Olek's mouth down.

"Are you well?" Olek asks again.

_No_.

He opens his mouth

( _weakness_ )

and the word catches. He closes it again.

"Luke," Olek repeats gently. "Do we need leave?"

His brow furrows.

"Come." Olek stands, pulling a light coat on.

"Why?" Loki finally manages to ask; his voice creaks, as if disused. He wonders a little what he has said, how much he has said. If he has spoken. How long it has been since he spoke. (How many people have been asking him if he is well.)

Tuesday, he thinks. It's Tuesday.

"You are shaking."

Loki looks down at his hands, holds one up.

So he is.

Seeing the tremble triggers a chain reaction, as if his body were only waiting to be noticed; his heart thuds in his ears, he can't breathe, he needs to breathe, he has to, this body (his?) is too frail, and whatever connection momentarily grasped evaporates. Except noise is still just noise, loud, too loud, and he can still see without it blurring and...

Olek helps him stand and drapes Loki's coat over his shoulders, a hand placed in the center of his back and then stumbling onto the street. Loki blinks at the sunlight and tries to convince his heart and body to stop shaking so, to convince his lungs that he needs to breathe

(and perhaps it is _not_ his body after all, though it _feels_ it, for a moment, for a few steps, then slips away again, like learning to crawl)

and sometimes, sometimes, manages it.

"Home," he chokes out.

Olek nods but does not look at him.

XXXXXX

He falls into bed still clothed after Olek leaves.

There is less shaking, though when he holds a hand up it is still unsteady. And he can breathe a little, though it is still tight in his chest.

He buries his face in the pillow with a sigh, curls up tightly.

He hears his phone go off on the bed stand, soft chime of an appointment, but does not move. He cannot remember what there is to do and it seems so... unimportant.

He can feel himself again.

(and he is not afraid he will suddenly stop, that suddenly everything will twist sideways and slip apart again, but this, this feels like exhaustion, like a spell worked too long-

He laughs, cracked, at the thought of spell and magic, and opens one eye to look at a hand that will not stop shaking, that is little more than flesh and bone, nothing _there_.

He rolls onto his back and grabs the phone off the bed stand, holding it up and staring at it until the words make sense because at least it is distraction. Ah. Steve. Dinner with Steve. Here.

He closes his eyes.

_Falling star-glimmer and burning and clawing, magic tearing and sustaining and he only wants to_ die _it is why he let go let him go but perhaps he is, dead, star glimmer flash pulses and sound twists in his head, music of energies that throb and give him air when there is none, and he can't feel anything, perhaps he is dead and he does not know except when he lan-_

He screams, claws at what is on him, around him, twists and lands heavy in the floor, blanket tangled around his legs and stares at the ceiling.

His apartment. Midgard. _Not there._

(He is not weak, he made a choice, he has chosen and decided, was in control, it was for the best, _is_ in control.)

( _Nothing else happened_.)

"Loki? Is everything alright?"

His throat constricts and adrenaline floods his system at being found, hands ready to break-tear-destroy, strength or no strength.

Steve. Blue blue eyes are looking at him, worried, a brow dipping ever so slightly, a dish towel in his hands.

His heart does not stop hammering, though he relaxes slightly. He cannot remember what it is to breathe normally; thinks of breathing, of regulating it

( _how, he has no magic_ )

and stops.

He twists, the blanket dragging to the floor, then pushes himself to his feet.

"Fine," he spits, ash on his tongue, lets him forget breathing and draw it in again, shaky.

He picks the blanket up and tosses it back on the bed. When he turns, Steve is still watching him. Something sharp and hot flares.

" _What_?" he snarls.

Steve frowns, sticking the towel he had been drying his hands with in a belt-loop.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Loki stares at him. No 'are you okay,' no 'I am worried about you,' no _question_ of his well-being and instead...

His teeth click as he shuts his mouth.

(somewhere, buried yet still audible, _help me. Please._ )

(he strangles it; he is _not_ weak, he does _not_ need help, not _need_ anyone, anyone at all)

"Leave me alone," he finally says, voice low.

Steve watches him and then nods. Does not protest, does not object. Just nods as if it is the most reasonable request in the world.

( _don't go_ )

"I'll be in the kitchen. Get some more rest if you can, you look exhausted." Steve smiles, soft and gentle, radiant, and for a moment Loki _despises_ that smile, despises that Steve _listens_ , shakes with hate and loathing and _rage_ even though Steve is gone, noise muffled as he does _something_ in the kitchen.

( _what if_ -

He does not scream, though he wants to, though the one lodged in his chest makes his every breath a struggle, every movement shake and tremble. It is all he can do, teeth grinding together and some low noise-buzz-swirl in his head, just at the edges, and nothing else is clear except _break_.

He begins with the blanket, until he is shaking from exhaustion and everything is ruined tatters, then forces himself to keep going, shredding, tearing, rending, _destroying_ , pushing this pathetic shell of a body ( _not_ his) even though it aches and burns and complains, until feathers are scattered everywhere and he is nothing but heaving breath and aching head and fatigue, heart pounding and anger slow low burn pressing in the backs of his eyes.

He curls up in the ruined bed things, feathers tickling his face and stirring as he breathes, closes his eyes. Something wet leaks; he ignores it. It's nothing. Some mote that got in his eye.

XXXXXX

The sounds of rustling paper and some soft thing scratching against it. Feathers tickling his face, uncomfortable pull of muscles. The bed. Right. He barely remembers it. It feels distant, as if it happened to someone else.

He opens his eyes.

Steve is sitting next to him, sketchpad propped against one knee. His brow is furrowed in concentration, face withdrawn and glimpse of something that Loki has no word there. Something he does not often recall seeing. His eyes flick over to Loki's face, study, then he blinks, whatever glimpse of artist Loki has caught vanishing as he smiles, that soft quirk of his lips that still makes Loki's heart warm.

"Hey," Steve says, letting go of the sketchbook to reach over and run his hands through Loki's hair, fingertips pressing in lightly, soothing.

"What are you still doing here?"

Steve removes his hand and looks at the sketchbook.

"Didn't want you waking up alone."

Not knowing what to say to that, Loki shifts and moves so that he can lean against Steve's side and see what he has been drawing. Steve obligingly moves an arm, wrapping it around Loki's shoulders.

"I don't look like that," Loki says automatically, mouth dry.

Steve chuckles, leaning over to press a kiss the top of his head.

"You do to me."

There is a solidity and strength to Steve's lines that capture bone structure Loki knows is not near so solid any longer, a knowledge of exactly what to leave undrawn and smudged to convey magic, and a love that twines with every stroke to create something god-like. Not exactly as he was, but close, close enough it might near be dirtied mirror in Asgard.

"I want it," Loki says, and tries to make it sound like demand.

"Okay. But only if you do some things first."

Loki reaches out to touch the edge of the paper. It is real, does not vanish or change, and he sighs, drinking it in. That he is still _here_ , even now, somehow.

"What?"

"You're going to eat at least a little I cooked tonight, there is almond paste in the cabinet that hasn't vanished yet, and we need to get you some new bedding."

"In a little while," Loki says. "I am comfortable."

"Okay." Steve sets his sketchbook on the bed stand that has somehow stayed free of the shreds of blanket, sheet, and feathers, then pulls Loki into both his arms, pressing his face into Loki's hair.

"I love you," Steve whispers, not letting go.

Loki shivers involuntarily.

"I love you," he murmurs, overwhelmed and dizzy and tired beyond reason, able to relax, to _breathe_ , for the first time in what must be weeks. He melts against Steve, listens to the beating of Steve's heart, steady warmth and tempo.

Closes his eyes and

( _one, two, three_ , _four, one, two, three_...


	11. I need help, do I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! This will hopefully be at least lighter in mood than last few chapters. Well, for a little while. You know.
> 
> I'm trying to think of any warnings. I guess Olek being Olek is a good one.
> 
> That's about all I got. See you next update. 3

**I need help, do I?**

People seem to think Natasha has no sense of humour. Considering her timing, Steve is inclined to disagree.

"So how's Loki?"

Steve chokes on his coffee and starts to cough.

"Excuse me?" he finally gasps out.

"You know. Your boyfriend."

"Not so loud," Steve hisses, glancing over his shoulder furtively (even though rationally he knows Natasha will have made sure they are alone). "You're supposed to pretend you don't know about him. _Or_ that I like men."

Natasha's lips twitch as she refrains from smiling. Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"Look, we can go to a cafe if you really want to know. But you've got to turn off all your device things."

"Okay." A bug is taken off and put on the counter in short order.

"All of them."

A second. Steve keeps waiting with an eyebrow lifted. Natasha stares at him then grumbles and takes off a third.

"How did you even know about that one?"

"Clint told me in a game of truth or dare."

They head out of the tower and to the subway.

"And you asked how many bugs I keep?"

"In my defense, you know who I'm dating."

"I'm beginning to think he's rubbing off on you. That's almost paranoid."

"Nah. That's all you." Steve grins.

XXXXXX

Once seated and both with drinks in hand, Steve finally returns to the original question.

"He's fine."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting on him to keep going. Steve looks away and focuses on drinking his coffee.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"How are things actually?"

"Fine," Steve says stubbornly—Natasha might be his closest friend on the team, but he does not appreciate the prying. Besides, he feels terrible expecting sympathy.

"You two had a fight then."

Steve ignores her and studies the cold skyline out the window.

"You did."

"It wasn't anything big. Hardly a fight. He's just having a bad couple of days." Weeks. Bad couple of weeks, tired and unhappy and quick to anger at the slightest thing ever since that night he got drunk at Olek's. Steve isn't even sure what he's done most the time when Loki snaps other than be there. "We're going to the music festival this afternoon."

Natasha nods before continuing. "So how is he now?"

"You don't already know?" Steve finds this amusing.

"I want to hear it from you." Natasha is serious, face neutral. Her 'not-betray-my-opinions' look and why Steve finds it so easy to talk to her about things he knows aren't right since he's meant to be Captain America.

(Like how he's dating an ex-foe. Natasha, though, must understand a little, having been given her own chance.)

"Well… he's smart, which you know. He enjoys music and listens to way more than I thought existed. He's really sweet when he wants to be, likes to give lots of little gifts. He has more mood changes than a chameleon has colours." Steve pauses and thinks a bit more. "He doesn't like himself, I don't think, and I'm pretty sure he's waiting for 'when' I leave more than 'if.'"

"That sounds exactly like Luke!"

It is entirely the fault of being around Natasha and Clint that Steve nearly jumps out of his skin and pins the hand on his shoulder that goes with that voice to the table.

"Hello Steve!" a muffled and distinctly Russian voice says cheerfully.

Steve says "Olek?" at the same time Natasha says, "Hello, Olek," clearly amused with Steve.

"Natasha! I thought that was you!" Olek shakes his arm out as Steve lets go, then flops into one of the empty chairs.

"You know Natasha?"

"Steve, I know _everyone_ worth knowing. You know this!"

Steve eyes them both. Natasha smiles and Steve decides he doesn't actually want to know.

"I guess. Wait, if you're here…" Steve checks his watch to find he has ten minutes to get across town before he's late. "I have to go, sorry."

"Sit down," they say at exactly the same time, same pleasant smile on their faces.

Steve hesitates. He really doesn't want to be late; to begin with, he's never let Loki live down being late for their first lunch date (admittedly the least of his worries). Then there's that Loki has been all but looking for reasons to get angry lately and Steve _hates_ trying to navigate through Loki's temper without losing his own (feels he's lost something when Loki does manage to bait him into arguing).

"Let me at least call him."

"That sounds a fabulous idea! I shall catch up with the lovely and charming Ms. Romanova!"

Steve heads away from them to an empty corner of the cafe and braces himself as the phone rings.

"Steve?"

"Hey, I'm running late. Natasha wants to talk about some things."

Loki is silent for a few long moments. Steve restrains himself from rambling (which tends to set Loki off, but Steve thinks that's because it reminds him of Thor).

"I see." Calm disinterest, a little distracted. Steve can handle that, even if it means Loki is (probably) storing it away for a later date.

"Don't wait for me. I know how much you've been looking forward to it."

"I didn't intend to." Warmth, a smile. Maybe Loki _won't_ hold this against Steve. "You should make sure she turned off the fourth recorder."

"What?"

"The fourth one. You did get the others, yes?"

"How do you know that?"

"Barton told you she typically keeps three. It stands to reason she would hold something back from Barton, so that if he did tell someone how many she has she would not be entirely compromised." Loki's voice goes sharp. "How do you _think_ I knew that?"

"Uh. Well. I. I thought, you know—"

Click.

Steve stares at the phone. And this conversation had been going so well. He goes back to the table and sits down, resting his head in his hands.

"Can you turn the last bug off?" he mumbles. There's a bit of rustling as Natasha moves, but Steve keeps his eyes closed.

"He's very good," Olek says, admiration in his voice.

"Yes. We knew that already."

"So why are you…? Oh. You thought he used Barton to figure out what Barton didn't know?'

"Maybe?"

"Steve is also smart, but not as quick as Luke," Olek says conspiratorially to Natasha. "It is truly stunning to see in effect sometimes."

Steve sighs and looks up at them.

"So we need to talk. Did you two plan this?"

"Oh not at all! I just happened to see you and I thought 'Olek, that looks like Steve! His face is very serious so I bet that he is talking about Luke. I must go say hello!' That is the truth of it, no more no less. And look, Natasha is here too, so it has been a double coincidence."

"We planned it."

"Natasha, _moya dorogaya_ , you spoil all my fun." Olek pouts at Natasha.

"What do we need to talk about?" Steve interrupts; he has a feeling these two could go for forever.

"Loki." "Luke."

"What is there to talk about? He's fine, I'm fine, we're fine. Everything is fine."

They both stare at Steve and Steve stubbornly stares back.

"Steve, I hate to say this but, ah, how do I say this? You are a liar and a poor one and you should allow Luke to do that instead. He is, lamentably, much better at it." Olek shifts, looking both serious and slightly concerned. "Besides, you only say 'fine' when things are opposite. We only wish to look out for you. Both of you," he adds before Steve can interrupt, "because Luke is also my friend."

"And I've seen how you look at him."

"I'm not leaving," Steve says. He can't think of what else this could be about.

"We wouldn't suggest that. Not as a permanent solution," Nat says gently.

"There isn't a problem that needs solving!" Steve slams his fist on the table.

Awkward silence settles. Awkward for Steve at least. He nurses his coffee for a few minutes and recollects himself. The fact Olek and Natasha let him helps. No pressure. They want him to just listen. He can listen.

"Sorry," he finally says. "I'm sorry. I just. I don't know what you're after. So Loki has been a bit unhappy lately and he takes it out with anger. It's okay. There really isn't a problem."

"We aren't saying there is," Natasha says.

"Not at all."

"We're just worried about you two."

"Exactly. You suit well; I would hate to see such a match fall apart."

"We think Loki may just need to learn other ways of coping."

"Definitely that. Also likely medication. Luke has many, many issues."

"You should get him to go to therapy," they finish at the same time.

Steve stares at both of them.

"What."

"Luke needs help."

"And you need to convince him of that. You can't be the only one helping him."

Steve starts to laugh. He can't help it. They think how Loki acts is… changeable? That Loki will actually _listen_ to Steve over this? It's like some sick joke, the ones he doesn't like that Clint and Tony are always swapping in debrief.

"You're serious," he says once he stops laughing and realizes they are both still watching him.

"I've already spoken to Janelle and she thinks she can help," Natasha says. "She'd be happy to. She's a very good therapist; Banner saw her for a while, which you knew since he's the one who told you about her. She can get him any medication he might need and she'll make sure he has to have them before she prescribes them."

"And Luke is hardly the first angry person with poor coping mechanisms that she has dealt with! She deals with many of you super types from what I understand."

"Why are you not surprised Luke is Loki?" Steve asks Olek to buy himself a little more time.

"Oh, he told me two weeks ago." Olek waves a hand, as if meeting an ex-god who brought an alien army to Earth is hardly worth noting. "You both are just so pleasantly quaint sometimes. Luke is one of the most delightful people I know; as if him having the largest tantrum I've ever witnessed would change that. He has been given his punishment, he is trying to change, and you've done an admirable job helping that change—which is _why_ you should bully him into therapy."

"Coerce," Natasha corrects.

"Convince." Olek nods agreeably.

"That night you called me and had me pick him up." Olek had been lost in thought and no quick smile to his lips when Steve arrived, Loki drunk and asleep in the guest room. "Okay. Okay. Say you've convinced me," and Steve isn't sure they haven't—he's pretty okay with therapy, really does like Janelle, and the idea of not being the only one helping Loki… well— "that still leaves 'how.' I'm not exactly good at… convincing. This isn't like taking him out on a surprise picnic or selling war bonds is what I'm getting at."

"Tell him you'll leave if he doesn't." Natasha says it the way she'd say 'tell him the sky is blue.'

"We can rehearse!" Olek adds.

"What?! No! Leaving is not an option, that's. No. I don't want to leave him!"

"You aren't going to."

"But what if he says no?"

"He will not." Olek's smile vanishes entirely. "He loves you. You said it—he is waiting on 'when' you leave. You are giving him a non-choice. Luke will claw for every scrap of time he can because he knows you will leave but he loves you too much to let you go when there is something he can do. He may fight and argue, but you must simply not cave."

"Be Captain America," Natasha adds thoughtfully. "Unless he gives a good reason, the Captain wouldn't bend over this point."

Steve slumps in his chair.

"If I lose him over this…"

"You won't."

They both seem so sure.

 

XXXXXX

"We need to talk."

Loki looks up from where he is lounging, head in Steve's lap and one leg dangling off the couch. Steve wonders if Loki knows what the phrase usually heralds as Loki blinks lazily up at him.

"Yes?"

Steve runs a hand through Loki's hair nervously. The sooner he does this the better. Be Captain America, Natasha had said—as if he can around Loki. No, this will be all Steve Rogers, clumsy and unsure.

"So. I was thinking and I thought maybe it might help some if you possibly—"

"You're stalling, Steve." Loki's face is neutral, but Steve catches the slight clenching of his jaw. Loki marks his spot in his book.

"I think you should go to therapy."

"Absolutely not." Loki sits up so fast that he nearly hits Steve's head on the way up, off the couch and headed to the door. Just like every time he does not like a suggestion and does not want to give Steve a chance to argue.

"How absolutely?" Steve breathes. He wants to be sick—this was a terrible idea. He doesn't expect Loki to answer.

"Very. I am perfectly fine."

"You are," Steve agrees and Loki pauses for a moment, looking at him. Face smooth. Right. "That's not why. I just think that maybe there are some things you might not want to talk to me about and another set of ears could help. Outside opinion, right?"

Loki crosses his arms over his chest, but at least he's not bolting out the door.

"Please? I already spoke to Janelle and she's willing to—"

"You _what_?"

Steve's mouth snaps shut so hard he nearly slices his own tongue. Loki stalks towards Steve, eyes narrow and brows drawn together.

" _Just_ Janelle. Look, I didn't want, don't want, just anyone helping you, and I thought it might help if she knew what exactly is involve—"

"You went and _told_ someone without asking me. And now I need _help,_ do I?"

"No! That's not what I meant! Stop trying to make this a fight, I just worry about you, Loki, Jesus. I love you and I want you to be happy and you've been so damn _sad_ the last few weeks—and it's not like you're letting _me_ help!" Loki blinks, rocking back on his heels like Steve has slapped him. Steve keeps going, hardly able to stop now. "And whenever I do try to help, you just get angry, and find some way to get us into another fight! I don't even know if you want me to be here at all; half the time you make me feel a monster for caring and the other half you're so damned _fragile_ I wonder how you haven't broken already. You just cope the worst ways, always tearing and breaking because heaven forbid anyone see through to see how much you hurt! I hate it! Okay, there, I hate it and I hate that you think that's the only way to cope. _I love you_ and I just want you to see that and be happy _most_ the time and maybe, just maybe, love yourself a little bit too." Steve draws in a shaky breath, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "That's all. I'm at my wit's end for how to help and that's her job, helping, and I think it'd be best. I want you to go. Please, just consider it." He opens his eyes to look at Loki.

Loki with his face utterly still, eyes glistening and mouth parted. Loki who looks as if the ground has vanished beneath his feet. Steve doesn't move to him, resists every urge to pull Loki into his arms and apologize. Loki swallows a few times, then looks away to search for words.

"And you think this… this _stranger_ can help?"

"She's helped me."

"As if you have anything wrong."

Steve ignores the bait; Loki knows exactly what Steve's problems are, helps in his own ways with them.

Loki draws in a shuddering breath.

"Please, Loki. I don't want to lose you."

Loki's eyes snap back to Steve, sudden sharp terror flashing momentarily.

"Please. I love you. You try so hard with everything else; why not this? Just give it a little thought? You don't have to decide right now."

"You would leave over this?"

Steve can't answer without choking, can't tell Loki that he isn't going to leave, only afraid that Loki will lose whatever he's clinging to, afraid Loki will give up entirely; can't tell Loki he's terrified that he'll make some mistake and Loki will shatter entirely.

(Because he has no idea how much more of Loki's self-loathing he can off-set. Because he doesn't want to be the only thing Loki holds onto.)

Loki stares at him for a long minute, eyes unreadable. In moments like this, Steve has no idea what he will do.

"I'm leaving." He grabs his coat, slipping into his shoes. Steve doesn't say anything, picks up Loki's book and rubs his fingers over it to do something, anything, but look at Loki.

"Here," Steve says, offering Loki the book. Loki takes it delicately; their hands don't brush.

Then he's out the door and gone, only sign of his irritation the way the door closes a little more sharply than it should. Steve draws in a shaky breath before he goes to the kitchen, pressing his palms flat on the counter and bowing his head.


	12. Jotun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Let's see where exactly Loki stormed off to, eh?
> 
> Warnings: suicide, anger, self-harm

He throws his coat and book in the passenger seat and drives.

He is buzzing angry, cannot stop it, cannot stop hate that he's slipped, that someone noticed he has been unhappy, and worse that he dared think for a moment he deserved such attention, that he was _grateful_ for it. That he was so weak, like some lost child.

(He could simply refuse; memory of Steve's eyes, tired and worried, leaves a sour taste in his mind.)

His thoughts swirl, no one thing coalescing, until his head is nothing but the emptiness of fire and honey and first waking.

At some point, the cold pierces through the haze.

He looks around and has no idea for a few moments where he is. The sky is dark, stars vibrant, and he is surrounded by rocky outcrops and trees. He looks behind him-a trail slopes down and away, ribbon through the woods. He looks ahead then, deciding he has nothing better to do, keeps climbing the trail upwards.

He stops walking as he reaches an overlook; distantly, he can make out the lights of some small town. He glances up and feels everything swirl for a moment, lost in brightness of the stars, so very close and real, and sits down on a nearby rock to ground himself, fingertips pressing hard into the stone. To remind himself that he is _here_ , not there. As his eyes pick out constellations, he remembers walking between some of them, remembers the thrum of the Bifrost beneath his feet.

(Once, long and longer past, he remembers going out to the Bifrost and peering over, fascinated that there was no end, no bottom, only endless sea of star and whirlpools of their dust, and wondering if one could fall forever. Sometimes, when he was still a boy, he would enchant small stones and drop them over the edge, checking each day to see if any had landed, turned to bird, and flown back.)

He takes a deep breath and looks down at the ground beneath his feet.

(None of them ever did return.)

He is not angry any longer, only so very, very _tired_.

(Lost.)

He tugs his shoes off, then his socks, and digs his toes into the chilled dirt as he stands. An anchor. He walks to the edge of the overlook, peering down into the darkness of trees and rocks-but he knows that this drop ends. He bends down and grabs a pebble, then tosses it over the ledge.

A few long minutes later, he hears it land in a clatter of rock on rock.

Far, he thinks, far enough for fragile, flightless bird bones to shatter and break, to bleed and sleep. He crouches, clasping his hands, studying the drop he cannot see, not entirely. A darker drop, one even sudden magic returned would not fix. But not too far, not so long to lose sense of falling, of existence, sudden sharp terror of falling without _eternity_ attached.

He stays crouched, looking over the edge, and he thinks.

When he stirs finally, his muscles scream and burn, make him stumble; involuntarily a hand snaps out, grabbing tight to a small sapling.

He grinds his teeth and forces his hand to let go.

Putting his shoes back on, he heads back down the trail, weariness settling into his bones (the way days on end traveling with Thor would)(he strangles the thought of "brother" and laughter and easy jests ringing the air). He does not stop again, not until he stumbles back hours later to where his car is parked near the base of the mountain, mind empty and focused on little more but the steady rhythm of one foot in front of the other, shivering violently.

He remembers vaguely somewhere in the drive back to roll windows he doesn't remembering lowering up, but his hands are still frozen even as he very nearly feels too hot.

_Jotun_ he thinks and cannot help laughing at himself.

By the time he opens his apartment door, the sun has risen.

The keys clatter on the bookcase by the door, followed shortly by his wallet and phone, and he strips as he stumbles towards the bed, unable to stop shaking, some bone deep chill beneath too hot skin-warmth swirling around blank exhaustion. He pauses, unable to remember if he locked the door.

He turns around and stumbles back, vision swimming. Fumbling, he uses numb fingers to check, resting his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes. Just a moment, he thinks. Just a moment and then he will...

_I am no jotun,_ he thinks distantly, numbly, then he realizes he is on the floor, violent shudders racking his body. Something is wrong. He manages to stand and pick his phone up off the bookcase again. He blinks at it in confusion, then vaguely recalls how to use it, pressing it against his ear as it rings, shuffling back towards the bedroom.

"Luke?"

He pauses again, because it is certainly Steve he called but Steve so rarely calls him Luke now.

(He's meant to be angry with Steve, but he doesn't quite remember why; instead he finds the sound of his voice soothing.)

"Steve?" he asks, licking his lips when the word slurs and creaks. He leans against the wall, slowly slides down. He watches his hand shake, fascinated.

Steve says something; he pulls his mind back.

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

Ah. Yes. _Something is wrong; jotun do not notice cold but I am not jotun any longer._ That is why he called.

"I'll be there shortly," Steve promises, voice worried, and Loki realizes he said thought aloud. He laughs a little, dropping the phone.

Later, at some point, there's painful warmth that pulls him out of thick black _rest_. He tries to bat away hands that press to his forehead, tries to open his eyes, but everything feels so _heavy_.

A few words filter in vaguely: _damn, Natasha, need, idiot_.

It barely seems important; he lets black settle again.

_I love you_ flickers down just before he falls asleep.


	13. Tell Me Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello.
> 
> How are you this fine morning? Me, I'm hoping work doesn't devour me again today.
> 
> Anyway. Steve's side of this.
> 
> Warnings: discussion of self-harm, suicide

Steve is cooking breakfast when his phone rings on the counter.

He's half-tempted to ignore it, partially because he wants to make sure the pancakes don't burn, partially because he can't imagine it's an emergency since he's at the tower with the team. Partially because he isn't sure he can stand the thought of talking to anyone who would call right now (Loki), not more than 'hello' and 'how are you?' (even if the answer will be a lie).

Tony skids into the kitchen and decides for him.

"Yes! Unguarded phone, let's see," Tony says, snatching the phone up, because all Tony is is curiosity about the life that Steve leads away from them. "Luke? Whose Luke? Boyfriend? Clint! Cap has a boyfriend besides us!"

Steve would usually blush at the joke and insist not; the fact it's Loki makes his mouth go dry and flares irritation that Tony can't leave well enough alone.

"Tony, give me my phone, please," Steve says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Clint walks in, hair sticking up wildly and looking entirely unimpressed with everything.

"Of course he does," Clint says deadpan, bee-lining for the coffee.

Steve goes to repeat his demand, moving towards Tony and forgetting about the pancakes.

"What is this of the Captain having a 'boyfriend?'" Thor booms as he comes in. "Is this like a shield brother or the other sort?"

Steve has no idea why he thought breakfast with the team would help him feel better after the restlessness of last night.

"Well," Tony starts, "maybe it's both. Say, Steve, you ever swing for the o—"

" _Give me my phone!_ " Steve shouts, hand slamming into the marble topped counter. Hairline cracks spread, and he can feel chips of the stone digging into his palm. Everyone goes silent, Tony actually shutting up for a moment, staring at him with wide eyes.

Steve pulls the phone out of Tony's hand and answers it, walking out of the kitchen.

"Luke?" (Better to be safe, he thinks.)

Behind him he hears Clint start to swear as the coffee he's pouring spills onto his hand, Thor murmuring something and Tony's disgruntled response.

"Steve?" Loki asks; his voice is slurring and rough, like he hasn't had anything to drink in a while.

"Hey. I'm with the team." He pulls his hand away, realizing he's chewing on his thumbnail again, and instead runs his hand nervously along the back of the couch.

"What?"

Steve's stomach twists. That didn't sound angry or annoyed or any number of things he might expect from Loki. It sounded disoriented.

"Are you okay?" he asks before he can stop himself, worried, determined to push until he gets an honest answer this time.

Loki doesn't say anything for a few moments, then:

"Jotun don't feel cold, but I am not Jotun any longer."

"I'll be there shortly." Steve doesn't wait for an answer, hangs up his phone, and turns around to find Tony and Clint both watching him from the doorway to the kitchen. He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and says, "Sorry."

"It's cool, Cap," Clint says. He takes a bite of toast and goes back to the kitchen.

"Yeah, I'll just scrape the burnt pancakes off the stove," Tony adds. "You go save your boyfriend."

"Not boyfriend," Steve corrects, if only because it would be entirely out of character for him to not. "Later."

XXXXXX

Steve finds Loki asleep in the hallway of his apartment, half-undressed and rest of his clothes scattered across the floor. He has dark circles under his eyes, chin pressed against his chest, one hand curled lightly around his phone. His lips and tips of his fingers are pale blue and Steve's heart lodges somewhere in his throat as he crouches down next to Loki and feels how very very cold Loki's skin is.

He knows Loki prefers to keep the apartment cool, that generally he doesn't bother with turning the heat on other than when he has company planned or the space heater in his studio for the sake of the instruments, and not for the first time wishes he could convince Loki to do otherwise.

Loki stirs as Steve checks his pulse, feels his forehead for any fever, but Steve knows even before he checks Loki doesn't have a fever, knows what the all the signs of hypothermia are from the war. All of them had when winter hit.

"Damn it, Loki," he mutters, not having any idea what Loki's done, where he went, what's happened, only knowing it had to have happened after their argument last night.

Loki tries to bat his hand away, mumbling, before going still again.

Steve picks Loki up and pushes his way into the blessedly warm studio, setting the other man down in the floor. He grabs a blanket from the bedroom to wrap around both of them, holding Loki against his chest and warmth. He has no idea how insurance works, really, doesn't have a need for it thanks to SHIELD, but he wants to take Loki to a doctor and knows that without any it will probably be far more than Loki can afford, knows how Loki's pride can get in the way. He'll find out later if Loki even has any, but for now, he needs to figure something else out.

He calls Natasha; she listens, tells him to give her five minutes and she'll call him back.

"You idiot," he tells Loki while he waits, wrapping both his arms around him, pressing his face against black hair. "You damned idiot. Stop doing this to yourself. If I lose you because of this..." Taking a steadying breath, he closes his eyes and tears spill over. "I love you. I love you, don't you dare die, not over this, idiot idiot idiot, I love you, you can't leave yet, not until we go to that exhibit you want, not until we go ice-skating, you promised, Loki, love, I only want to help, please, _I love you_."

His phone rings. He tries to gather together some shred of control, manages to stop sobbing, and rubs tears away with the back of his hand.

XXXXXX

"You operatives should dress more warmly."

Steve looks up from where he has been waiting.

The doctor, an older gentleman with glasses that perch just barely on his nose, holds his hands up. "I know, I know. Classified, you cannot tell me more, there was likely very valid reason for all this, but my point still stands."

"How is he?"

"Sleeping. He will be fine; the hypothermia was bad but not severe. He seems more exhausted than anything, barely stirred at all. You can see him if you would like."

"Thanks." Steve stands. "Really. Thank you, doctor." He holds his hand out to shake, because it's less awkward than pulling this stranger into a hug. Steve has no idea what strings Natasha pulled to get them here or whom she's talked to, but it doesn't make him less grateful. The doctor's eyes crinkle at the edges as he suppresses a smile.

"I am glad I could help. Go on now."

Steve enters the room and drinks in the sight of his lover, then carefully sits down on the edge of the bed. Loki is curled on his right side, blanket pulled close to his chest by one hand, other arm tucked beneath his pillow, breath stirring a little of his hair that has fallen in his face. An IV attached in the crook of his left elbow drips clear fluid at a steady rate; from there Steve follows the line of Loki's arm to where it is interrupted by the over-large paper bracelet. He presses a hand to the side of Loki's neck, rubbing his thumb along the pale blue vein, and finally finally can let some of his tension ease—Loki's skin is warm again.

Loki doesn't even twitch.

Steve sighs, finally pulling out his phone to see how many texts he's received from the others after his sudden departure, sliding one hand down to rest at Loki's waist while he scrolls through messages. There's a few messages from Tony, offering to buy him a baseball team of his choice and that little pub he knows Steve loves, asking if there's been an accident he needs to call the lawyers about. Steve chuckles, knowing that it's Tony's way of apologizing for earlier. Pepper's messaged him to ask if he needs anything, a clear sign Tony is worried if he's mentioned it to her. Thor must have gotten ahold of Tony's phone, if only because _I apologize for any insult with my question about your boyfriend :(_ is definitely not a very Tony thing to say. Clint's is straight to the point and even uses full words to ask if "Luke or Lucas or starts with an L" is okay.

He tells Tony not to buy anything, to stand the army of lawyers down, and to let Thor know that he's not upset with him or his question. Pepper he lets know he doesn't need anything for right now, Natasha he tells thank you again, and when that's all done all he has left is Clint. He hesitates, looks at Loki—who still hasn't moved other than the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes—and decides he'll feel guilty about this later.

_I may need some team building later_ he texts Clint, then finally puts his phone away.

A nurse drops by to check on Loki, writes a few things on his chart, and then asks Steve if he needs anything. Despite saying no, he gets asked again a little later by a different nurse, and the first shows back up with a bottle of water and some magazines for him to go through when it becomes apparent Steve isn't going anywhere. He skims through magazines, not really reading it, and at one point asks if someone could bring him a few pieces of blank paper and a pencil.

Steve has always processed best by drawing. When he first woke, when he would try and fail to really manage to find some way to get back in step with everything, he drew lots of buildings—took comfort in the lines and curves that were real and solid and ordered, that had to be ordered to keep the buildings upright. It let him see the city now, see what was changed, and in a way drawing those buildings had helped him lay some claim to them, however small it was.

Mostly, though, he likes drawing anything and everything, but especially people.

He draws as he thinks, shakey and worried lines at first, glancing up at where Loki sleeps from time to time. He covers every inch of the first page with abstract pattern and swirls, the same handful of movements over and over again, until the lines grow steadier and his thoughts grow more coherent.

Something like calm eventually settles around him; calm and low grade _anger_ that threatens to bloom sharp. The anger he tries to keep banked; in this strange calm, he recognizes that it's only because he's worried about Loki, about what will happen next, about what he can do.

What he can do, he decides, is ask what happened.

It is a good place to start; it assumes nothing even though Steve knows that Loki's anger had something to do with it and will give him a clearer picture of what to possibly do next.

The tip of the pencil breaks at the thought.

He takes a steady breath, leans back, and watches Loki sleep.

XXXXXX

When Loki finally stirs, a nurse has sharpened Steve's pencil and he's been sketching, drawing and absorbing himself in the small details—how Loki's finger curl, the way the light reflects off the metal in the room, the folds of the blanket. It's a little past one according to his watch.

Loki wakes slowly, eyes a sliver of dark tourmaline, right up until the moment his mind registers he doesn't know where he is. A brief glimpse of panic flickers across his face as he starts up, then he groans, falling back against the pillows and his eyes closing. He trembles a bit, a hand feeling at where the IV goes into his arm, not yet aware Steve is there. There are still dark rings under his eyes even though he's slept nearly half the day.

"Hey," Steve says.

Loki's eyes open again, focusing on him; emotions flicker rapid fast over his face, too quick for Steve to catch any of them, then settle again. Too tired to do much else, Steve guesses.

"We're at the hospital. What happened?"

Loki shifts, so he's sitting more upright, looking down and hair obscuring his face a little. Steve frowns at him, then gets up.

"I'm going to get a nurse."

Loki doesn't respond, a hand smoothing and twisting the hospital blanket.

Steve lets one of the nurses know Loki is awake, then goes to the cafeteria to get something for Loki to eat. By the time he gets back, it's been nearly a quarter of an hour and one of the nurses has fussed over Loki, giving him a glass of water, raised the bed some so he can stay sitting more comfortably, and is still noting a few more things on Loki's chart. She smiles at Steve as he comes back in; Steve offers a cursory smile in return.

Once she leaves, he closes the door behind her and then gives Loki the pastry he bought. Then he retreats again, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Loki doesn't look at him, hands picking at the pastry, crumbling it, before he sets it aside.

"So?" Steve prompts when it becomes clear Loki will not say anything.

"I went out."

"I gathered that. Where?"

"What does it matter?"

"You are sitting in a hospital recovering from hypothermia. Please tell me you are smart enough to grasp why it matters," Steve says, voice flat and calm, calmer than he feels.

Loki doesn't do anything for a few long moments, then he shrugs slightly.

"Perhaps."

"Tell me," Steve says.

"I don't wish to."

"I don't care whether you want to or not— _what happened_."

Loki looks up then, meeting his eyes for the first time, clearly startled by the vehemence in Steve's voice. Steve finds he doesn't care, only keeps himself leaned against the wall, arms crossed, because he's promised Loki not to grab him again and right now all the low buzz of fury in his head wants is to shake an answer out. Then Loki's eyes flick away again, darting over the walls, to the counter Steve had been sitting at most of the morning covered in paper, to the blankets, over equipment.

"Out," Loki finally says, a little resentment in his voice.

"Out _where_."

"Hiking. The Catskills." Each word is clipped.

"Why."

"It is none of your con—"

"Loki," Steve interrupts, voice low and nearly a growl, "I want you to take a moment to think before you finish that sentence."

Loki looks at him again, startled and wane.

"Because while there a lot of things 'none of my concern,' I think the moment you walked into my life and decided to stay, the moment you called me after nearly _killing yourself again_ , this became a lot of _my concern_."

"You don't know I nearly killed myself," Loki protests.

Steve only raises an eyebrow.

"You _don't_. I simply needed to get away for a little while, to clear my head—"

"Of course. A charming midnight hike in the Catskills in freezing weather without a coat is exactly the sort of thing people do to 'clear their heads.'"

"It is, it was, and you don't know I wasn't wearing my coat, I could have bee—"

"Other than it not being in your apartment; it was still in the passenger seat of your car with your book."

"For all you know I drove there and then drove—"

"You had dirt on your hands."

Loki growls, teeth grinding and glaring at Steve.

Steve stares back evenly.

"Why," he repeats.

"Because," Loki snaps.

"Why were you angry enough to think you needed to 'clear your head' by hiking at night?"

"Because," Loki grates, eyes flashing perylene green, "you seem to think that you can bully me into something I—"

"I only suggested, I didn't tell you you had to go."

" _Stop interrupting me!_ " Loki screams, body vibrating with tension. There's a desperate light twisting in his eyes, denial-hate-anguish bleeding across his face. "I am _fine_ , it was _reasonable_ , I don't want any help! I don't want to go _talk_ to someone, everything is perfectly _fine_ , why don't you _listen_ to me, _I don't want you to help me!_ "

"And what am I supposed to do, just stand by and watch you tear yourself apart?" Steve snaps back.

"I am _not_ trying to tear myself apart!"

"But you are!"

Loki leans back, face going blank-shocked, eyes glistening damp.

"You are," Steve repeats softer, finally moving away from the wall and closing the distance between them. Loki watches him warily as he kneels down onto the bed, then looks away, refusing to meet Steve's eyes. "You are. Listen to yourself, love. You're explaining why an all-night hike on an empty stomach with no coat in below freezing was a _good idea_. Your appetite's been gone for weeks now. You punched a mirror two weeks ago. You spent a night tearing your bed to shreds and then fell asleep exhausted, and I had to bribe you to get you to eat anything." Steve cups the side of Loki's face, gently drawing Loki's head towards him. "Imagine if I had done any of that, what would you say?"

"That is not the same," Loki replies, voice low, eyes lowered.

"Why?" Steve asks gently.

"Because it is not. You wouldn't do any of that, it is not the same."

"But if it were the same, love? How would you feel? What would you say? Would you, could you, just sit by and watch?"

Loki swallows, eyes still lowered.

"Yes."

"Don't lie," Steve chides, brushing away the tear slipping down Loki's face. "You interrupted a coronation and nearly destroyed another realm because you couldn't sit by. Maybe not the best way to demonstrate your concern and needs more than a bit of redirecting, but you've got a bigger heart than you let on."

"I don't want your help," Loki whispers so quiet Steve almost can't hear it, his eyes closed.

Things fall into place, and Steve suddenly realizes how even in the heat of emotion Loki hasn't said 'need,' only 'want.' Loki knows he needs something but...

_I don't deserve you. I don't deserve help._

"Oh, Loki," Steve sighs, lowering his weight gently so he is sitting next to Loki, cupping Loki's face in both his hands. Loki is stiff, shaking slightly, and Steve presses soft kisses to Loki's cheeks, eyes, and forehead before he rests their heads together. He slides a hand back to gently run his fingers through Loki's hair, closing his eyes.

Fractionally, Loki begins to loosen, until finally a hand hesitantly grips at Steve's shirt. Eventually, eventually, he relaxes, something almost timid in how he rests his head against Steve's shoulder, wet streaks warm against Steve's skin; Steve wraps Loki in his arms and keeps running a hand through his hair, presses another kiss to the top of his head, and pauses a moment to simply breathe.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," Steve says softly.

"Sentiment," Loki mumbles against his neck but there's no bite to it.

"Yeah." Steve chuckles a little. "It is. It doesn't change that I think it's true. Hard to remember sometimes though." He waits a few more minutes, because he doesn't really want to admit this, but he thinks Loki might need it right now. "I was so scared I might lose you. You know that? I don't know what I would do, if I'm honest."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Maybe. I love you, though, so I'm not required to be otherwise. Love makes fools of us all, I think it goes."

Loki hums, soft and quiet.

"Will you leave?"

"No." Steve squeezes Loki gently. "I worry about you. I'm just trying to help. I know you won't tell me some things, maybe won't ever be able to tell me, and I know you think it's silly, but talking can help. Someone else who has an outside perspective, so you don't have to do everything alone. But if you don't, I'll think of something else." He leans back, loosening his arms some, and tugs Loki's chin up with a finger. "Look at me."

Loki's eyes shift upward, meeting his.

"I love you. I'm not going anywhere, not unless you tell me to. You don't have to go, and if you go, you don't have to go to Janelle. It's your choice, Loki, I only want to see you better than you are now."

"You think it's best," Loki says, voice catching, eyes watery Hooker's Green.

"Well, yes. I wouldn't suggest it to you otherwise."

Loki's eyes dart over his face.

"You speak truly."

Steve smiles.

The only warning he gets is the feel of Loki's hand slipping into his hair and tugging before they're kissing. Steve slips a hand to the back of Loki's neck and pulls him close, lets his eyes close and revels in the sensation. A tiny noise escapes Loki's throat as Steve's fingertips ghost along the back of his neck, Loki demanding and insistent, teeth biting down on Steve's bottom lip—

There's a polite knock at the door.

Steve pulls away, flushing, Loki's hands sliding down his shirt and smoothing it before he looks away. Steve has a moment to realize that Loki might possibly be more abashed than Steve at nearly getting caught—he's certainly never seen that particular shade of rose on Loki's cheekbones—and then a nurse is walking in.

XXXXXX

"Your place or mine?" Steve asks about thirty minutes later, in the car and trying to decide which way to go.

"I would like to change," Loki admits.

"That doesn't answer the question, you know. You've got pajamas at mine."

"Do you happen to have almond paste?"

"So it's not a mouse eating that."

Loki doesn't glare at Steve, but he does sulk, crossing his arms and slouching into the seat, limbs trying to sprawl in the small space. Steve can't help but smile wider, reaching a hand over and tugging on the tips of Loki's fingers.

"Stop that. You'll get us killed."

But Loki still moves, taking his hand. Steve draws it over, kisses it without taking his eyes off the road, and laces their fingers together.

"No I won't. Stop worrying. You could close your eyes until we get there if you're that worried."

"That would only make it worse," Loki mutters sourly, hand tightening around Steve's for a moment.

"Then don't. But there's definitely some almond paste the mice haven't got to yet."

Steve catches the faintest quirk of Loki's lips out of the corner his eye. Not entirely at ease, not open and wild, certainly not the contented thing from the summer, but it's more honest than it has been in weeks and a little tension unspools out of his chest.


	14. Perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are in nebulous territory my friends. Very nebulous. Fording the river between here and where my next pit stop is is rather undecided, so updates will likely slow down. On top of that, I've been a bit depressed and tired lately.
> 
> That said, I come bearing an update! A lovely update.
> 
> An update that some some smut. And feet. And no warnings other than smut with feet! Huzzah!

There is something about almond paste. A sweetness to it and a texture that isn't all smoothness.

(There is something _safe_ in reflecting upon almond paste and not how very _sore_ he is, how his feet ache, how he still feels a bit chilled, about how he thinks he might be able to sleep a thousand years and still not feel rested. Almond paste is simpler.)

He can make out sounds of Steve in the kitchen, smell the aroma of some mouth-watering creation that will no doubt taste divine (and not just because he feels starved)(he may be; he has not felt hungry in who knows how long), but he instead focuses on the slowly melting cube of almond paste on his tongue, grains falling apart as his muscles relax in the nearly-too-hot-but-not-quite bath water. There are bubbles, so many they very nearly foam over the rim of the tub, and the smell of something Steve assures him is lavender but smells like no lavender Loki has ever encountered. He focuses on the feel of water on tender muscles, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and rubs grains of sweetness around, eyes closed and focusing solely on this moment.

(Not _weakness_ , not tears, not on the conversation barely finished; not the bruise at his elbow where the IV was, not the sight of the paper band left on the bathroom counter.)

(He does, however, let the thought slip through that Steve loves him for reasons beyond all comprehension, and that he worried. Is worried.)

He swallows.

(And that perhaps, perhaps, there is something worth worrying about.)

He lets a hand dip beside the tub, bubbles spilling over, and plucks up another cube of almond paste, eyes opening part way and studying it in the light. A few grains stick to his fingers as he places it in his mouth; he licks them off before slipping further into the tub.

It is quiet. Softly, sweetly quiet.

(He might even dare say 'restful.')

He loses track of time for a little while (but not in the desperate fog-edged way of before; he can still sense it. Passing it in idle ways, not having it simply _vanish_ as it had before).

"No sleeping in the tub," Steve chides from the door.

"Mm," Loki hums, letting his eyes open to look at Steve. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, a kitchen towel in one belt loop.

"You'll drown," Steve adds, as if Loki is not aware that he cannot breathe water. Loki shifts slightly, water sloshing up and over, more bubbles making a bid for freedom.

"While ill-advised, you cannot stop me from sleeping where I will."

"Sure I can." Steve comes to the edge of the tub, a slight smile on his face as if he is planning something; Loki sinks further into the tub, keeping careful eye on Steve and bracing himself slightly.

"It is comfortable. It is a perfectly reasonable place to want to sleep."

"Now who's being ridiculous?" Steve's smile widens; Loki allows himself to relax.

It is a mistake.

One moment he is very comfortably warm and wet and relaxed; the next Steve has crouched down and pulled him out the tub as if he is some maiden without regard for getting his clothes wet. Loki hisses and sputters, trying to twist out of Steve's grip, but Steve only straightens, bracing his feet wide so he does not lose his balance.

"I don't want you falling asleep and drowning," Steve says, grinning like the cat who caught the canary when Loki finally resigns himself to the fact he will not get out of Steve's arms (at least not without causing himself injury). The air is chill against his drying skin, unpleasantly so, but soon enough Steve has settled him in the bed, soft kiss to his forehead. "You can sleep here."

"I will suffocate amongst the pillows," Loki points out, but in truth he is more comfortable here. Less cramped and grateful for the softness of mattress and blanket against muscles that are complaining once more after his attempt to escape Steve's care.

"I'm sure you will," Steve says indulgently, tucking the blankets firmly around Loki, and then leaves to tend to whatever he is making.

Loki glowers after his retreating back for a few moments before letting his eyes drift closed.

XXXXXX

He is not sure he is awake.

For one thing, he is warm. Warm and relaxed, a supple puddle of comfort and peace as he hasn't been for months.

For another, his head has decided to be momentarily quiet. Silence, in a way. It is never silent when he is awake, but even when his dreams are closer to nightmare he has never been a lucid dreamer.

And he is on his back. He does not often sleep on his back, too exposed, but he is very much on his back and there are hands on one of his feet. Thumbs press and rub into the arch of his foot and he groans, toes curling and tingle running up his spine— _that_ is far, far too good to be something waking.

The hands stop.

"Did I hurt you?" Steve asks and Loki opens his eyes, propping himself up enough to see Steve sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, Loki's foot in his lap.

Loki lets his head fall back onto the bed.

"Don't _stop_ ," he orders ( _not_ whines or begs or pleads).

Even without looking he can all but see Steve's smile.

Steve goes back to rubbing his foot, thumbs pressing in gently, rubbing circles opposite each other as he works his way towards the toes. One hand cups the top of Loki's foot while the other presses a long, smooth line back down from toe to heel and Loki is almost _certain_ that this has no right to feel quite so _deliciously_ good. Even more so as Steve gently stretches his toes back, pressing into and rubbing just beneath the taut skin of the ball of his foot.

Vaguely, he realizes he's half-hard and panting and debates being mortified with his body's betrayal. Steve's fingers slide around to the tendon at his ankle and begin to massage; he can all but feel his thoughts leak away. He presses his other foot into the bed, fingers and toes curling into the sheets, gasping and shivering.

Steve presses a kiss to his ankle, a hand smoothing along the flesh of his calf and ending with a feathery brush to the back of his knee. Loki groans, leaning his head back into the pillows.

He can't remember the last time he was so aroused, almost painfully, wordlessly so—because when he tries to say anything to Steve, to beg and plead and demand, all he has is a jumble of Not English and Steve only knows English and _oh Norns_ the feel of Steve's lips and teeth grazing by his knee. He tangles his hands in Steve's hair, arching into the touch and warmth and _please_ he tries to say, only Steve's fingers, oh so clever, clever fingers, _press_ into his instep and all he can do is mewl pathetically, precome leaking onto his belly.

Steve's teeth dig into the flesh by his knee while his hands massage his foot and Loki nearly weeps, white current blazing across his every nerve, and he feels he might die, just like this, torn apart by need and desire and want and _Steve_. He can't help writhing on the bed, can't stop pathetic panting and groans and whines, his hands twisting and tugging roughly in Steve's hair; Steve stops kneading his foot to pin Loki down and trails kisses up the inside of his thigh.

_Oh_ some part of his mind manages to think. Steve's mouth is wet and warm as he swallows around Loki, a hand still at Loki's knee, thumb digging into that bundle of nerves that makes him shake uncontrollably. He manages to open his eyes enough to look at Steve, meeting blue gaze that slyly looks back at him, eyes sparkling amusement-desire- _love_.

"Steve," he says, or thinks he says.

Steve swallows him down as Loki comes apart, hands gently pressing him into the bed, grounding him, until he feels broken and sensation is almost painful against his flesh. Steve pulls away, trail of come at the corner of his mouth, and presses a gentle kiss into Loki's hip bone. Steve curls around him, pulling the blankets over them both, and Loki idly notes he must have changed because his clothes are dry.

"Well," Steve says after a few quiet minutes, "I don't know if I should be surprised by that or not."

"Oh?" Loki is so very sleepy, comfortably so, and he thinks he might doze just like this.

"You were always trying to get people to kneel. Maybe we could have averted some damage if one of us had got to your feet."

Loki opens his eyes, startled, staring at Steve with his mouth open. Steve looks back boldly, a grin quirking his lips and softening his face, a tiny bit of abashment staining his cheeks red.

"What?" Steve asks, voice still teasing.

Laughter wells up; it has some slight hysterical edge to it, he can hear it, but he can't stop. He presses his face to Steve's neck, tears stinging his eyes, shaking with laughter.

( _He didn't wish to die in the first place, this is a choice, his choice, and what fun it is, listen, listen,_ listen _—_

"Loki?" Steve says, amusement gone. "Loki, are you alright? I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't," Loki chokes out through laughter and tears, voice muffled. "Don't, that was funny, that was amusing, the thought—" his voice breaks for a moment, then it is once more in his control "—the thought that a _foot massage_ would have stopped me then—"

(the _absurdity_ of it, and the fact it very well _might_ have, that kindness had nearly broken his resolve _several_ times over (" _You come home_ ") and how _tightly_ he had grasped anger and betrayal)

He sobs once, thick and wet and choking, before he manages to stop, unmanly giggles bubbling in his throat like hiccups every few moments until they finally, _finally_ begin to taper off. Steve hands rub against his back, soothing, and Steve is tense now, worried, and Loki wonders what he has ever done to deserve such care.

"I am well," Loki says, taking a deep breath. "I am well."

Steve watches him, brow furrowed, and gives a slight nod.

"Only tired. Stressed." He meets Steve's gaze and offers a lopsided smile. "And it _was_ funny."

"Okay."

If he weren't so tired, so comfortable, so sated, he might despise himself for slipping.

As is, when his stomach growls in the silence he rolls over, burying his face in pillows and wishing he would just _die_ already.

This time Steve laughs and Loki smiles a bit. He supposes he is being rather ridiculous; he can't even remember when he last ate other than the bit of almond paste in the bath.

"You've barely eaten in over a day, don't be so hard on yourself," Steve says, kissing his shoulder before moving to get out of the bed. "I'll be back in a few minutes, let me heat dinner back up." Another kiss, to the top of his spine.

Loki slowly uncurls from around the pillow, listening to the clatter of dishes, catching scent of food through the still open bedroom door.

(And for a moment, he thinks that perhaps, _perhaps_ , accepting help he doesn't deserve will ease the worry from around Steve's eyes, will keep him from losing stretches of time, and that _perhaps_ Steve is right.

Sentiment.

But perhaps.)


	15. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops. Hi everyone.
> 
> Sorry there was such a delay on this. First I had some personal stuff, then depressed a little, then next thing I knew I'd lost my wallet, THEN work's been busy and TODAY is my birthday.
> 
> I thought it would be awfully nice to post a chapter of my favourite piece I'm writing, so here it is.
> 
> No warnings, just introducing another little element we'll see in the background and sometimes foreground.

Loki is not sure _what_ exactly he was expecting from Janelle.

The first session is on a Thursday (typical).

Her office is on the seventh floor in a nice part of Brooklyn, easily reached when he is between his morning appointments and lunch. The waiting area is pleasant enough, with only a receptionist when Loki arrives. He smiles politely at Loki. Loki keeps his irritation under wraps, coat draped over his arm. The receptionist gives him a few pieces of paper to fill out, offers assistance if he has any questions, and then assures him Dr. Bloomberg will be right out.

He fills out the paperwork—basics he has long since memorized—though he hesitates at the name.

(Steve says she knows.)

_Luke Friggson_ , he writes. She may be the only one and no need to leave a paper trail. He skims over what looks to be legalize (not for lack of understanding—he used to be a prince, schooled in etiquette and treatise since he could talk; is now a freelance musician, writes and handles contracts near daily when in negotiations. It just does not _matter_ because he must do this whether he desires to or not).

(And he is _not_ irritated at Steve.)

(And if he _is_ , it's only a little.)

(He is not already regretting agreeing to this, no matter the assurances and concessions Steve has made regarding it all.)

A woman comes out, long black hair clasped out of her face; Loki is a bit surprised. She _knows_ , but her smile is no less kind (reminds him of Mother, if he is honest) and he shakes her hand instinctively when she offers her own. It is soft, neither too firm nor too weak.

Her office is simultaneously too open and too small. A few items—cards, loops of string, a cube with a variety of colours on it—lay about the room. A window looks out on the street and buildings across the way.

"Please, take a seat," Janelle says with a gesture. She has his paperwork, some attempt to distill him to his essences, and sets it on her desk with barely a glance.

Loki sits in the chair closest to the door. He keeps his coat on his lap (because he finds it hard not smooth wrinkles with his hands (out of practice, having been away from court so long) but at least this way it is _hidden_ ).

He does not know what to expect.

Janelle does not sit behind her desk; instead sits in one of the other chairs near him. She does not bring a notebook. She smiles as if he is the most charming person she has ever met.

"Loki," she begins and he flinches (anger flares sharp in his head), "or Luke, if you would prefer that. As you know, I'm Dr. Janelle Bloomberg, but you are more than welcome to call me Janelle. Whatever makes you comfortable, really. This first session, I like to go over a few of my own ground rules, get to know you a little, answer any question you have, and find out what you expect to get out of our sessions. Is that okay with you?"

"Yes," he says shortly, still irate (still flat-footed).

She smiles again.

(It is a very nice smile. Honest.)

"Where do you want to start?"

He shrugs, presses his lips tight.

"How about you tell me why you want to be here?"

"It is what is best," he says, voice cool.

"Is that all?"

"Yes." If this is all then he will quickly grow bored.

(Fleetingly, he debates being more open; he knows, vaguely, that Steve has spoken at length to her over _something_ and has since started going somewhere else. It at least lends credence to Steve's insistence he does not want to know what Loki talks about, only wants Loki comfortable enough to go.)

"Would you like to tell me what _you_ think about this?"

"I have."

"No. I think you've told me what Steve thinks. Steve is not here and he won't get to know what you say."

"What?"

"It deals with confidentiality. Unless there are extremely particular circumstances, everything we discuss here is strictly between you and me." A flicker of concern crosses her face.

Loki is not sure this changes anything.

(But it might.)

"Would you mind telling me why you decided to come?" she asks again.

"Steve desires I do."

"And you? What do you think?"

"I think this is a waste of time and energy." ( _You cannot change a monster_.) "But it is what Steve wishes, and I would prefer he not leave.

"Besides, even if you say will not, there is nothing to stop you from telling Steve."

Loki is not sure what he was expecting of Janelle, but it is not the concern-irritation-worry that crosses her face.

"I think," Janelle says, "we need to go over a few things."

It certainly was not this.

The rest of the first hour is spent on forms he skimmed over; he ends sitting with copies of everything and a list of laws he can look up at leisure. At some point, it changes from Janelle talking to a... dialogue, him engaging and asking questions. Janelle, he realizes, actually _cares_.

(He is not sure what he thinks about that.)

"Why?" he asks her.

She is also clever-quick in her own way.

"Because it is a waste of both my time and yours if you do not want to be here, if you don't have goals and wants for this. Besides, if you can't trust me to stay silent, I make a poor third party, don't I?"

"Even though..." He trails off. She _knows_ but it does not make it easier to mention (not that he is _afraid_. Hardly. Not of her).

" _Especially_ so, in your case." She smiles, then glances at her watch, silver lovely against siena skin. "If you decide not to come to another session, it will have been a pleasure to meet you."

He blinks. He has a choice?

She stands as Loki does, walks with him to the waiting room.

"If you don't decide to come back next week, you are always welcome when and if you decide you want to." She shakes the hand not holding papers.

"Thank you?" he says. "I think?"

She smiles.

XXXXXX

He arrives the next Thursday a few minutes before his appointment.

(Curiosity, he thinks. Surely just that, no weak desire to _talk_ to someone about his _feelings_.)

(About what has happened.)

(Just curious.)


	16. Would You Like To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never again. No more promises ever again on update schedules for anything ever. Period.
> 
> That said, hello. Hi. Welcome back. Thanks for your patience. I do hope we don't take as long for the next few parts, but I have to work on them and personal life has been busy, so I won't hold my breath on those. We'll see, okay?
> 
> No warnings, except Steve being slightly oblivious.

Steve has resigned himself to surprises being a natural part of his life. Try as he may to avoid them, they seem attracted to him and at some point (when too many surprises intersected at the exact right time) he started to create his own. He supposes they aren't really surprises to him-he does, after all, know about them-but it doesn't change they are spur of the moment _joys_ that take out some of the edge of the other less pleasant things in his life. He enjoys letting whim take him new places, accidental discoveries of the things that go on within his... well, not his city anymore, but what _used_ to be his city (a city that he is slowly beginning to know again despite how much she's changed).

He enjoys sharing these moments.

They create new memories, new images to tape up over the old ones, to look at and think that maybe this life in this all too fast and sleek world is pretty alright too. Sharing them, too, let's him give experiences to those he loves, because if he's learned anything from how life has treated him it's that the experiences are what stick with a person.

XXXXXX

"We should do this more often, my friend," Thor says, grinning wide.

"You've got a bit of powdered sugar on your face," Steve tells him, grinning back.

Thor laughs, wiping his face.

"And sure. I'll give you a ring when you're around, how's that sound?"

"Most wonderful," Thor says.

And while Steve notes all the ways that Coney Island is different than it was, that he's sharing the experience with Thor-who still hadn't managed to go to an amusement park somehow-makes it better. They're learning it together, and Thor's excitement is contagious. It lets him put the differences away and just enjoy himself.

He makes a mental note to do this again when it's not just the indoor arcades that are open and things are warm out. Thor, he suspects, will enjoy it tremendously.

XXXXXX

"Tony, hey, what do you-"

"Oh no you don't, Steve, you tricked me out of here last time, go bother someone else with your need for spontaneous moonlight walks or whatever," Tony interrupts without looking away from where he's working.

"I didn't trick you," Steve protests.

"Lies."

"I didn't. I only told you I hadn't seen a movie in IMax and asked if you'd like to go."

Tony pauses, glancing up at Steve.

"And what is it you haven't done that you desperately need me to educate you on this time?"

Steve makes himself look appropriately chastised. They both know how this will go, but Tony always puts up at least a token protest before agreeing. Steve just goes out of his way to make sure to pick things he knows Tony will like-even if it's just like complaining about.

"Science center is having this show on robotics and I-"

" _What_ and you're going to go to them over ask me? Oh no. No no no." Tony drops what he's doing; Steve doesn't wince at the sound. It's amazing what a person can get used to and start to think is normal. "You and your whims. Who taught you to be clever about this stuff?"

Steve smiles.

XXXXXX

"Steve?"

Steve looks up to see Bruce in the doorway.

"Oh. What is it?"

"Want to go get some tea?"

"Sure," Steve says.

"Are you busy?" Bruce asks, peering at the pile of scraps on the table.

"Nothing that can't wait," Steve tells him. It's true, too; better to enjoy the idle surprises of other people's company than not. If he can surprise others, its just as fair for them to surprise him from time to time.

XXXXXX

Though he know he shouldn't, that it's not really fair, he has favourites to ask to go with him on these random outings. Olek, Clint, Thor.

Loki.

Loki might actually _be_ his favourite person to share these things with.

(Really, he thinks, it makes sense; Loki's one of his favourite people. Besides, Loki's eyes will light up in wonder most the time once he's finally been convinced, and there's so _much_ Loki's never known, never had growing up or even had a chance to try now. It's one of the most beautiful sights Steve's seen, and he's not lacked for breathtaking in his life.)

That Loki tends to need a little prodding to convince to come with, well, that only makes it all the sweeter.

"Have you ever been ice skating?"

"Mm," Loki hums noncommittally without looking up from the oyster he's attempting to open.

"It's cold enough," Steve adds. "And there are a bunch of different places we could go."

Loki makes a face; Steve is reasonably certain that it is because of the juice leaking down his hands, the oyster finally opened.

"There's a rink close to here that's outdoors. It's be a good day for it, if you want to go."

Loki's frown deepens, eyes flicking up to Steve briefly before he grabs his napkin and wipes his hands off. Steve had tried to tell him he wouldn't like the mess they made, but Loki had insisted that if he was going to be dragged out to lunch when he'd rather stay home he'd get whatever he pleased, thank you.

"If you insist," Loki says.

"I'd like to."

"Mm."

Steve grabs one of Loki's hands to kiss his finger tips. Loki snorts, pulling his hand free before tapping Steve on the nose.

"I suppose we can go after we finish lunch," Loki finally says.


	17. Do You Believe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get used to this. I wanted to make sure you guys have something to read while you eat all that post-Valentines chocolate. And we all know what goes best with chocolate, don't we?
> 
> (for the curious, since we won't see it: Loki skids about like bambi when first ice-skating; they don't have it on Asgard, after all, but he does get fairly passable at it. He can do fairly even and slow circles, but he would like to say that he prefers his feet on solid ground, thank you.)
> 
> **warnings:** self-harm, self-hate, denial, mention of past near-suicide

Loki lies to Steve once.

Rather he is caught once.

It is a little after he starts therapy. It is not even a very large lie. To be honest, Loki cannot even recall why he lied or when he did.

That is really the problem (as he sees it). Because he is comfortable with Steve, because he assumes that Steve knows his names (Silver-tongue, Lie-smith), because he does not remember what it is to be trusted.

(Because… he does not know. He didn't even want to lie but he did, needed it and hardly remembers when it began.)

(That is a lie. He was roughly six and he lied because he was meant to be with Thor and his friends. And suddenly, he did not have to be, could stay with his books and his magic and his music if he but lied well enough. It was a beautifully freeing moment.)

It is Steve's own fault for trusting him when no one else does.

"But _why_? If it didn't matter why lie over it at all?"

"Why do you always tell the truth?"

"What?" Steve stares at him, entirely stunned. "Loki. What kind of question is that? Because you're supposed to be honest."

(Honesty has never gotten Loki much. It gave him learning he is (was)( _is_ ) an adopted monster, little more than a tool. It had his beloved dire wolf chained, magic-spun serpent thrown to Midgard, woman he adored (who _tricked_ him, played him a fool (only a matter of time until Steve does the same)(not that he remembers her treachery, just _aches_ for the lie)) killed. It is simply more trouble (pain) than telling people what they wish to hear.)

"I suppose if you are golden and beloved as Thor you are meant to." Loki attempts to go back to his book.

(Except he suspects it is honesty—or Steve's belief that Loki is honest—that has got him Steve. He is not sure.)

Steve takes the book away and closes it. Loki quenches the need to snatch it back (that, at least, he will admit Janelle has helped him with).

"Steve. It was not important." He talks slowly, uses his most reasonable tone despite the buzzing in his head. "I honestly don't remember why. Or remember I had, otherwise we would not be having this conversation. It is not as if I would lie over anything actually important."

(Lie. He lied to Thor about Odin's death, about a treaty with Jotunheim, about Mother. (He smothers the sick heavy thing that gnaws his chest at the memory.))

He smiles and reaches to take his book back.

Steve moves it further away and considers him.

( _Why_ does he _care_ , he who always tells the truth, he who spills and bleeds it and is not drained dry, who does not know how to tell people 'no' when he needs to)(chokes down sick anger-fear-loathing.)

He tilts his head slightly and keeps his smile firmly in place.

"You actually don't get it. You didn't think about it."

"Yes. Thank you. That is what I said." Thank goodness. Perhaps they will _finally_ move past this (disgusting) topic.

Steve is frowning. Loki has no idea why. Everyone not golden and perfect is assembled of such tiny lies.

"What?" he snaps, irritated.

"Why?"

"Why _what_?"

"Why lie? I want to understand."

Loki is confused.

No one has ever asked _why_ he lies. Or even _cared_.

(He thinks. He is unsure if that is true or if he has simply… forgotten.)

"Steve, I already told you that it was nothing." He smiles softly but lets it drop when it does nothing to ease the hard lines of Steve's face. "You are making a mountain of an anthill." Loki crosses his arms and slouches, catches himself and tries to relax once more before he gives up and stands, pacing.

"I only want to understand," Steve repeats.

"What is there to understand?" he demands. "I lied, it was small and over nothing. Fine, yes, I'll make sure not to let it happen again, everything is resolved." He heads toward the door.

"Do you not care why it bothers me?"

"No." He pauses before the door, then begins to pace once more. The room feels so very _small_ ; he snags the pack of cards off the coffee table and begins to work with them in his hands: shuffle, palm, sleight of hand tricks he can do blind. Steve watches him; he ignores it and cuts the deck first with his left hand, then his right.

"Do you?" Steve asks again.

He flips through a few more cards, making them vanish then reappear in the deck. This is stupid, he should _go_ , there is _nothing_ to understand.

"Yes." He pauses, but it does not clear the bitter taste in his mouth. "What does it matter?" He refuses to look at Steve (not petty, he simply does not wish to look at him, where he sits on the couch).

"Because you lied in the first place, without thinking about it. I mean... if you lie about little things, okay, we do lots of little things, you know? Like what about surprise trips or maybe you hate watching movies. And then what stops you from lying about the bigger things? Your word? How much is that worth if you lie in the first place?"

"That's not fair," Loki snaps, tossing the cards back on the table. "You lie all the time about how you feel to everyone. I have no reason to tell a lie about something important, so why-"

"So all you need is a _reason_ to tell a big lie?"

"I didn't—that is not what I meant."

"But you had a reason when you lied to Thor, didn't you?"

"That was different!" He glares at Steve; Steve meets the glare, calm scattered in slowly rising irritation. "You have no reason to bring Thor into this. You don't even know what that involved."

"Clearly," Steve snaps back, "since I can't trust you to have told the truth."

Loki's head buzzes with anger-hate-rage.

" _There's_ why I lie," he snarls. "Because no one _listens_ when I do tell the truth."

Steve holds his hands up defensively, shoulders stiffening.

"Sit. Come on. Sit down, we can be reasonable about this—"

" _Reasonable_? You're the one bringing up Thor—"

"Please, Loki, I d-"

" _No_. I don't feel like it." He settles in Steve's beloved at-ease military pose, tilts his chin up. "Unless I do, but since it isn't _important_ then I suppose we will never know, will we?" He smiles cold and vicious (hate hate _hate_ ,this is sick-twisting beast in his chest; he wants to vomit).

Steve takes a steady breath, jaw tensing for a moment.

"Okay. You don't have to sit. I get it. That's fine, too. I shouldn't have brought up Thor. And I do want to hear what you have to say, really."

Loki watches Steve warily, notes all the subtle signs of anger.

"Wait," Steve says, "do you think I _don't_ want to hear what you actually think?"

Loki tenses more, feels frayed and near snapping.

"You _do_." There is a note of hurt-surprise in Steve's voice, a brow furrowing in anger and confusion. And _that_ is what gets Steve to stand; Loki takes a step back and away, ( _when_ did Steve learn to read him at all?) feeling cornered ( _hates_ he is so weak). "I... Loki, look at me, you actually think that?" Steve takes a step towards him and Loki turns away, does not want Steve to see crumbling resolve. "That's... that's stupid." Loki glances at him sideways, keeping what distance between them he can (when did this space become so small). "It _is_. I _love_ you. Look at me, look, _I love you_. I love you for who _you_ are, that's why we're together, why the hell would I care if you don't agree with my opinions or like the same things or disagree sometimes?"

( _you_ _don't mean that_.)

Loki looks up briefly, meeting Steve's hurt gaze, then away to the door.

"I'm leaving," he says, voice cold (brittle snap anger (self) loathing).

Steve is silent for a moment, studying him.

"No," Steve finally says. Steve is closer to the door, isn't he, of course he would be, and Loki is caught between desire to leave and not wanting to get any closer, to risk any touch (because he might shatter, feels like shattering, and he mustn't). "Do you believe me?"

"It is more than just... opinion." The words are low quiet, stick to his throat on the way out. He growls to clear it refusing to look up. "Everyone lies. You lie, how you feel, that you're well when you are not. Everyone does."

"Do you believe that? Really? Do you believe I'm lying every time I say 'I love you?'"

He lets himself look at Steve, sees anger melting to something not unlike horror (hate). Loki cannot bear to see him so spins on his heel and looks around the room, for something, anything, _anything at all_ , some low keening noise in his ears—himself. ( _Disgraceful weak undeserving._ ) He _does_ believe Steve, he _does_ , if anyone can love him (monster) it is perfect perfect Steve, he _does_ believe him, he _does_ -

"Loki?" Steve's voice is soft, gentle in a way it has not been, and Loki wonders wildly how they have come to this.

"No," he whispers and fights back (self-loathing fear despair), clenches his fists tight until the tips slick in damp, he's bleeding and it doesn't hurt near enough, not at all, and his chest aches with anger that he has been so weak _again_ in front of people _again_ , he just _wants_ to be hurt _doesn't_ he (sentiment)—

Steve is talking. About him. To him. He resists the urge to break something (almost), tangles his hands together and digs into the flesh, shaking, trembling. He closes his eyes because if he cannot _see_ things to throw perhaps he _won't_ but he cannot stop shaking, cannot stop white noise roar in his ears, cannot breathe, all he wants is _break-shatter-bre_ —

" _Loki_ ," Steve says, sharp and desperate. He opens his eyes to meet blue-blue eyes, concerned, _worried_ eyes (because for some reason Steve worries and Loki does not _understand_ ), and realizes that there are hands on his own, wrapped around and pressing so that he cannot move them to tear further into the skin. Another slip. Another, after so many just today, just now.

"Let me go," Loki says quietly, looking down at their hands, tension drained, and he is not sure if he means only his hands or more.

"Is that what you want?"

His blood is smeared on Steve's hands as Steve loosens his hold and then lets go, hands hovering and uncertain.

But not touching.

"I don't know," he admits. That, at least, is truth.

Silence settles. Steve does not move away but he lowers his hands; Loki can feel his eyes though he does not look up. Cannot. Not with how wet-hot his throat is, not with threatening tempest that he can still sense at the edges of himself. Loki crosses his arms, closing his eyes.

"Don't go," Steve says softly. "Please. I'll find somewhere else to be, somewhere else to go, but please. I don't want you to overd— Just please."

Loki thinks of cold and ache and a drop that he did not take, of waking up to steady beep and warmth that _almost_ pushed away chill, and nods without looking up.

Steve hesitates a moment, then cups the sides of Loki's head and places a kiss in his hair. He does not say anything else, only gets his coat and leaves Loki standing alone.

Eventually, Loki stirs, cleaning hands that won't stop trembling, moving the book to end table—busying himself in little ways (because he will not weep, because he is _strong_ , because he will not need to slip again, audience or no). It is not his apartment, though, and when his hands fumble, out of things to do, he stands for a few minutes, entirely aimless, before going to the bathroom and turning the shower water on.

And if perhaps his face grows hot and wet, well, the shower is certainly both.


	18. What I Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Directly following last chapter, we have this little thing.

"What was Loki like before everything?" Steve asks Thor. He tries to keep his voice restrained, to keep from showing how absolutely desperate he is for the answer.

Thor looks blind-sided by the question, enough to draw Steve away from the thoughts that keep tearing at him, from chewing over everything Loki had said and done and how absolutely _little_ Steve seems to know about the other man.

(After all, hadn't he just thought all he needed to do was have faith in Loki and Loki would tell the truth? Hasn't that always been the case?)

(" _Do you believe I'm lying every time I say I love you?" and how Loki will not look up, how Loki shakes and trembles and finally, finally lies, "No."_ )

(Maybe.)

"He. Well." Thor blinks, shifting gears from the video game that he is playing to the question. "Is there anything in particular you want to know?"

Steve sits down next to Thor, and the effort stay relaxed, to not snap at Thor (to try and get rid of the sight of Loki with his head bowed, unwilling to look up) is nearly too much.

"No. Just curious." He thinks of what he _thinks_ he knows now (and that's it, _thinks_ , because how can he be sure of anything?). "What were his favourite foods? Was he neat? Did he like music? Just the little things that make up a person, I guess."

Thor nods, pausing the game and setting the control aside. Steve stares at the brightly coloured vista instead of Thor.

"Why don't we get ice cream while I talk?" Thor suggests.

"Okay."

Steve lets Thor drive the conversation as Thor finds his shoes and a jacket—Steve has no idea why Thor wants a jacket, he's seen him fly through hail storms, but then again Thor has always seemed to have a fascination for Earth's clothing—idle back and forth, asking how he has been since they last saw each other. _Easy_ conversation that distracts Steve from the... talk he's just left.

Three blocks later, Thor finally returns to the original question.

"What brought him up?" Thor asks. "You seem fairly troubled."

Steve's shoulders stiffen, but Thor isn't looking at him.

"Curiosity, mostly," Steve says. "I know you said most of those myths aren't true, not like how they were written, but I was reading them. If that's not him, then what was he like, you know?"

Thor nods.

"They are not entire true, though I think labeling him a god of chaos was accurate enough. He was always very scattered," Thor says. "His rooms were filled with oddities and things from the realms we would venture to, clothes left wherever he happened to drop them. I am not sure how he found things, tell the truth, but he did. Often while looking for other things." He chuckles a little.

"He liked to travel, mostly because it gave him an excuse to eat new food. Loki loved food; when we were younger, Mother would sometimes take us with her to other realms, and at first Loki would complain until she mentioned to him that there would be new things to eat."

"Did you complain?" Steve asks, smiling a little despite himself.

"Oh, of course. I wanted to go _with_ , not be left behind," Thor says with a grin.

Steve thinks about that; it's hard to imagine Loki being scattered. Loki (at least the Loki _he_ knows, which he supposes might not be saying much anymore) is always organized, days meticulously laid out, clothes organized by colour and cut, books and movies by title and author, kitchen so organized it would be the envy of any chef. And heaven help a person who leaves something out of place—Steve's been subject of more than one discussion about where the remote goes or how he should put away the dishes.

But Loki does still like food.

If not for Thor having already made clear that Loki may as well be dead as far as Asgard is concerned, Steve might wonder if Loki's playing at something.

"This troubles you," Thor says.

"What? Well, a little. I've just been thinking about it since you mentioned what happened to him." He shrugs, looking down. "Seems a bit extreme, even though we didn't really know anything about him."

"It is." Thor doesn't even hesitate as he says it, something hard and angry beneath the surface, an intensity that makes Steve's hair stand on end. "I know he did terrible things, and he deserved some type of punishment for it, but what was decided went too far." His intensity fades and in the silence Steve looks to the sky. No storm clouds, which is something at least.

"No one really _knew_ Loki," Thor says more quietly. "Not even I. Oh, I knew the way his anger would explode. I knew his love of food and books, and I knew not to disturb his things, but I never did know what drove him so, and I perhaps never will. I never knew how to navigate his hurts, only how to push until he finally spoke them."

Thor pauses, eyes darting to Steve's, as if for permission.

"Go on," Steve tells him. "I'm the one who asked, I'm not going to be angry because you talk about him."

"He could convince a room of strangers he considered them all friends, and not a soul would truly know anything about him. Certainly not really notice if he was unhappy—he did not want any close enough to notice. But when he was upset, he had... little habits, so small most would miss them, to give him away. He'd never talk until pushed to breaking, though, and I wish I knew why." Thor chuckles darkly. "I was always two steps behind, always stumbling upon the wreckage of his temper after the fact to try and sort out what had happened."

That, Steve thinks, is not so different.

"I'm sorry," Steve tells Thor, because he has nothing else to say. He can't tell Thor about Loki,a guilt all its own guilt, but he's also sorry he can give Thor so little comfort.

Thor shrugs.

"If I had not always been so damnably proud and blind, perhaps things would be different now," is all the thunder god says before ducking into the ice cream shop.

Steve waits a few minutes before he follows.

The interruption to order ice cream helps lighten the mood. Steve offers up other topics after they've sat down, things not related to Loki and the past. He can understand that, not wanting to talk about what's been lost, and he feels guilty for seeking answers from Thor about Loki. It's so clear that Thor still mourns him, and it's not right to drag that out for his own peace of mind.

It's not until they're on their way back to the tower that Steve gets a text. It's from Loki, which is worrying in a way, but Loki would call if it was truly a problem (wouldn't he?)(he would, he did that night that feels far too close for comfort now, he _would_ call).

_I'm going to see J and go home_.

That's it.

And it's a relief—relief that Loki is seeking Janelle out on his own, that Steve doesn't have to keep finding things to keep him out of his own place, that Loki has let him know he's doing _something_ that will (hopefully, but how can Steve be sure?) not result in him trying to hurt himself.

"Is everything well?" Thor asks curiously.

(No.)

"Yes." Steve smiles and Thor smiles in return, trusting as ever.


	19. For the Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is short.
> 
> The next two chapters are really long. Like. Really really long. They are also already mostly written. The very next needs a bit of polish and a few bits filled in. The one after that is done.
> 
> And the three after that are also done.
> 
> So this isn't anywhere near the end, if that wasn't obvious. As Olek would say: trust me, eh?

The park.

It is a quiet corner, a path not often trod. Public—to avoid a scene—and private, or as close to both he will get.

(This is not like Thor, alone and Mjolnir out of his grasp. For one, Steve is not a god. Two, Steve is not about to give up. Three... (he can list all the ways this is different but it is not _helping_ ))

This is _necessary_ , he reminds himself.

(And not 'necessary' like Thor, but thought and discussed with several people.)

(He does not want to do this.)

(That, he thinks, is the same.)

Steve finally arrives, spring in his step, light winter coat on. The tips of his ears are pink, breath frosting the air, and his _smile_...

Loki takes a deep breath and smiles back.

(sick twisting fear)

They kiss, brief, and Loki steps back. Steve begins to speak as they walk, voice clear and strong in the winter air.

(It is so tempting to let Steve continue to speak, to forget why he wished this meeting.)

"Steve," he interrupts.

The sudden silence is deafening—frost crackle and snow damped.

("Can you not tell him when you're bothered?"

"No."

"Why not? He'd listen, wouldn't he?"

"I...")

"Yeah?" Steve is watching him. They've stopped walking. He stills his face and slips into an old mask he does not wish to need to wear anymore.

("You need to know what you want. You need to feel like you can communicate that. Not to say it can't work, but you need to find yourself—and I think, sometimes, that you push that away in favour of what you think Steve wants instead.")

"I would like to take a little time apart."

"What?"

(His choice. He needs to decide what that is. To be more. _Better_.)

"I think," Loki says carefully, "that we should take a break."

("I see. That is fair, people take time apart all the time. It need not be permanent."

"I do not know what to say."

"I can help, my friend. Trust me, eh?")

Steve stares at him, opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. Loki waits.

"You're serious."

"Yes."

(He does not _want_ this.)

"But... _why_?"

(But he thinks, maybe...)

Loki expects the question and it still does not become easier to answer. Worse, because Steve looks so hurt, betrayed (that is different from Thor), and all Loki wants is to take the words back. He swallows the apology.

"Because it is what is best. Please do not make this more difficult than it need be." A pause, then he adds (though he knows he should not), "Not permanent... just a little time away. That is all."

"What's best," Steve says slowly.

"Yes." Loki would be relieved except... except he knows that look in Steve's eye, that glimmer of hard flinty sad-despair- _anger_ (sees it in the mirror often enough).

"So that's it. That's all you're going to say. Just 'it's for the best' and not a word more."

"I... there is nothing more to say."

"But _why_?!"

Loki blinks and tenses, but he keeps from flinching.

"I told you. It is for the best."

("Be firm. Stay calm. You've got to stay by your choice. I'll have cookies and movies on standby if you need them.")

"Are you sure or are you just telling yourself that?"

"I am sure."

(But he is _not_ , it is _easy_ to be upset, contain it, and leave alone, _easy_ to resent and drift from event to event, surprise (interruption) to surprise (interruption). And maybe he is _wrong_ , maybe it is not for the best, Loki certainly knows his history at making choices for _himself_ that are good is... not good (nonexistent).)

(But he did not decide this alone.)

"I am," Loki says a little more firmly. "This is goodbye for now, Steve." And though the words writhe sour and unfamiliar on his tongue:

"Thank you."

(Because if not for Steve, he would not be _here_ , with this first (tentative) step towards (a little) honesty, towards (a little) self-knowing, and actually _wanting_ any of that)

"I... yeah. Yeah. That's it then."

"For a little while," Loki says before he can stop himself.

"Maybe. Might be best if it's permanent, since you seem to know all about best now."

"I did not say that." His voice is not shaking. Not at all. "I said a little time apart would be for the best."

"Might as well be the same thing, yeah? How long have you been...? Do I want to know? Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"It is not the same thing! And how could I? Look, here," and his voice breaks, rises angry, " _listen_. The first time I've given voice to what I want—"

"This is hardly the first time!"

"But how does 'I want Thai over Mexican' even begin to compare to _this_?!"

"That's not even close to how it is, you pick other—"

"I hate your surprise trips!"

Steve's mouth stops open but Loki barely notices the words dying on Steve's tongue.

"I hate them! I hate how they interrupt my day, even when I have nothing planned. _Especially_ when I have nothing planned! I hate having no _choice_ , because I do not, because it is some 'experience' or another and it is what you think is best for me, that I experience all these normal mortal things, but because it is for the best, because _I do not know what is best_ , I cannot say 'no' even though I _hate them_!

"I want to know, I want to be able to tell you the truth, this is what you want, me _better_ , it is what you _say_ and here, _here_ , the first time I suggest something, you reject it because it is not the best _you_ want!

"And maybe, maybe you are right. Maybe if the best must always be Captain Rogers' best, then maybe 'a little time apart' should be permanent."

Loki draws a shaky breath, tries to pull in shatter-buzz- _rage_ , fists trembling and gloves pulled tight over his knuckles.

"This is goodbye, Steve."

He spins about-face in the snow, slips as he walks away. White noise fear-rage- _hate_ twists in his head but he refuses to look back.

XXXXXX

Eventually, when he can think again, he sits shaking in his living room floor, back pressed to the wall and arms curled around his knees.

The room is... not well. Shards of broken glass are scattered across the carpet, chipped paint and splashes of... something on the walls (tea?), and he is fairly certain the television will need replacing. His hands, he realizes distantly, are cut, covered in blood; he cannot tell if the cuts hurt.

He finds his phone, scrolls through to Janelle's number.

"I think," he says slowly, shakily, "I need to come by."


	20. Only Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we goooo~
> 
> Just shy of 4k words. I _told_ you these were big. And next chapter is _even longer_.
> 
> warning for Steve being a total total total insufferable jerk at the beginning, but it smooths out.
> 
> Olek is awesome. As always. Cause _Olek_.
> 
> Anyway
> 
> Enjoy~

Steve hates being angry. Hates how impotent it makes him feel, hates that so often what has him angry is beyond his control, and hates most of all that it is really just a cover for his hurt.

"I just don't understand _why_ ," he says to Olek, running a hand through his hair. Sick twisting anger is back and he can't stop churning over the conversation from a few days ago. He wants to punch things until it blurs into nothing, until it stops aching, until he feels something other than _loss_.

"Did he not offer a reason?"

"He said something, but I'd hardly call it a _reason_."

"Is that so?' Olek says mildly, and Steve resists the urge to throw something at the tone.

Instead, he frowns down at his hands, clenches them into tight fists, then relaxes them again.

"That it's for the best. That's it. Hardly a reason."

"Surely he said more than _that_."

Steve remembers that day in the park again. Loki said a lot, more than he usually did, even if it had been prodded out and shouted.

"That he was sure this is for the best. That he wants a little time away, that I don't listen. It's all so... so..."

"So?"

"Stupid." Steve scowls down at his hands. "It's stupid. How's he even meant to know what's best? Look at the choices he's made before. He even said that he doesn't know what's best. It just feels like he's telling himself this is right and it's _not_ , not at—"

"Steve."

Steve looks up. There is a certain look on Olek's face he doesn't recall having seen before, pleasantly blank with something hard just beneath the surface.

"How do you know this isn't the best choice?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I know. I know _him_. He could just _say_ something, it's not that hard." This is obvious. Loki is Loki. Loki does not protest, does not object, Loki enjoys plenty of—

(" _I hate your surprise trips!"_ )

"Steve, I think you are confusing what people tell you with what you are again. While you are very good, incredibly so, that does not mean you know best for him."

"But _he_ doesn't know! He said so! He's just running away because that's what he _does_ , he runs and forgets and tries to act like the past didn't happen. _Someone_ has to—"

"Steve Rogers," Olek snaps, "sit and _listen_."

Steve blinks; he does not remember standing up. He settles back down uneasily, closes his eyes and takes a few breathes, equal parts angry and ashamed. Olek waits until he opens them again to speak.

"You do not hear this enough, so allow me: you are not perfect. You do not always know what is best, right, or good—not even for yourself. You may be one of the kindest men I have ever known, but that does not change that you are _human_.

"I introduced you in March. It is only _November_. To say you _know_ Luke, know what is best for him, is both insulting and you deciding you need not know more. _You_ , Steve, do not know Luke—you cannot, after so little time. You do not know what is _best_ for Luke. Only _he_ can possibly know what is best for _him_ , and he is trying. He asked for space, for time apart. He says you do not listen, and maybe that is not true, but maybe he feels that way because he does not yet know how to speak.

"So _stop_. Stop thinking he has made a terrible, ill-informed choice by asking for space and time. You need to trust _Luke_ to manage to decide what is best for _Luke_ —not you, not anyone else. He might decide best is to not come back, he might not, but do not _blame_ him for trying when that is what you claim to want of him." Olek pauses, face softening a little.

(" _that is what you want, me_ better")

"No one has to be wrong, Steve." His voice is quieter, somber as it only goes when he is serious. "You do not have to like what is best. It's okay to be upset. But perhaps you should _listen_."

Steve stares at him, tight-lipped and heart raw.

"You are only human, my friend."

He looks down, blinks back damp, emotion tight in his throat.

"I don't think that... I. I love him."

"I know. And I think he wants to believe that."

"I don't... I didn't want him to go. I don't like that he might not come back."

"That is perfectly reasonable of you. But there is so much you can do in the space given. You have the choice to not wait at all. This isn't the worst thing that could have happened, Steve."

He rubs his eyes, tries to scrub out tears before they fall.

"I miss him."

He feels so helpless.

XXXXXX

Once shock and ache fade a little, he isn't sure how much he believes Olek.

He calls Loki, though; he's not surprised when Loki doesn't answer (and would have not known what to say if he did). He leaves a message apologizing for bitter and angry words, tells him that if Loki works things out, when _Loki_ decides, to let him know.

He doesn't say "I love you," though he thinks it.

_You need to trust_ echoes in his head. Trust. Because so much of them is him trusting Loki and Loki trusting him, and at some point that broke down. He sighs, tosses his phone in his gym bag, and heads out to try and burn away some pain (at the least replace it with a different sort).

He's only human. Only Steve Rogers, beneath everything else, just some kid from Brooklyn.

And Steve aches.

XXXXXX

He starts to spend more time with the team, throwing himself into training and volunteering to head out on missions that need a bit of physical force. It lets him distract himself, direct the rise of anger and hurt outward in a useful way.

"What happened?" Natasha asks one afternoon as they leave headquarters together.

Steve shrugs.

"He wants space."

Natasha doesn't ask anything else; Steve is grateful for it. He doesn't want to talk about it. Not again. Not so soon.

"Don't do anything," he adds. He has no idea if he's the only reason SHIELD has left Loki alone, but as angry as he is right now he won't leave that to chance.

Natasha glances at him and shrugs.

Steve stops, grabbing her arm and making her look at him.

"Don't," he repeats. "This is personal. He's not any threat to anyone. Leave him alone."

Natasha frowns at him. He waits.

"I'll put a word in," she says. "I can't promise anything further."

Steve frowns, but nods. They start walking again.

"If we do, I'll see if I can get the assignment."

"Thanks."

XXXXXX

Things without Loki are... different. It's all little things, little traces that Steve didn't even realize Loki left on his life.

Like almond paste.

He's making coffee cake one night, mostly to satisfy a craving for something sweet, and when he reaches into the cabinet to get down some ingredients, he finds he won't actually need to go pick up some more almond paste. Nevermind he bought this only a few days ago. It feels stupid to be staring in surprise at the almond paste that he bought, but there it sits. And he can't remember the exact moment anymore that he started to expect to always need to run out to buy almond paste, can't pinpoint it in the slightest, but there had to have been a moment where he subconsciously recognized that Loki would eat his almond paste when visiting.

Loki would eat it, Steve would pretend he didn't notice.

_A little time._

Steve hesitates, then puts away everything. He suddenly doesn't want to eat anything.

XXXXXX

Some days, he thinks this is what limbo must be like.

He has no idea what a little time means. He has no way to place it. He does not know if Loki needs a week or a month. Maybe years. He doesn't know how long he needs to wait, if he _should_ wait on Loki. After all, what if he waits and Loki decides that the best is actually simply not to associate with Steve?

It's not inconceivable.

(Worse is Steve can think of a thousand reasons it might actually be better if Loki and he don't get back together, for Loki to move on, so many tied to just who Steve is—Captain America—and the people he considers a second family—the Avengers.)

He waits, though. Not because he lacks for options, not because he feels he should for Loki, but only because the thought of trying to date anyone else is... unappealing. No one he meets really has Loki's quick quirk of smile, talks about and appreciates food like Loki, hums the way Loki does when he's about to cause mischief. It would be unfair to date someone and spend all the time comparing them to how, well, _not-Loki_ they are.

Steve has no idea when Loki became so important to him, only that he has.

XXXXXX

"Beer time."

Steve stops, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.

"What?" he asks.

Clint leans against the wall in the training room, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"You've been all moody again. It's beer time. Team building exercise, very important."

"I need a shower."

"Nope. We'll have a beer here. I mean, come on, you know Tony's got fantastic beer to try and lure you back."

Steve hesitates.

"Oh. _Oh_. It's that. Right. Go shower then. Fifteen minutes, but then you and me, we're getting beers. Not optional."

Steve smiles a little.

"Alright."

When they're settled at the bar—a different one than the one from what feels like years ago now—beers in hand, they finally return to what it is Clint wants to talk about.

"First, you do know the rest of the team wouldn't care, right?"

Steve shrugs.

"Okay. Well, they wouldn't. So when you're ready, you tell them. Now, what's eatin' ya, Cap?"

Steve can't think of a single way to say that Loki broke up with him, even if only temporarily, or that he's beginning to suspect that it was the right choice. That he's started to notice that he _does_ tend to tell people what he thinks is best without really thinking about it; most people, the team, they all push back if they don't like it, but he's never even realized he does that. And if he does do that, then how much else has he missed besides Loki hating surprise trips?

"Earth to Steve, come in Steve." Clint waves a hand in front Steve's face. Steve bats it away, letting himself slump.

"Luke and I broke up. He wants some space to sort things out."

"Ouch," Clint says, wincing. "What happened?"

"I..." He does know, doesn't he? Loki had said as much, even if Steve hadn't been able to listen or understand a few weeks ago when he first said it. "A lot of things. He's going through a lot of changes right now, needs a little time to sort himself out."

"And he didn't want someone to help him out?"

Steve chuckles, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"I'm part of the problem."

Clint stares at him like he's gone nuts. He knew this would happen. People expect and think he's good to the point they don't realize he makes mistakes, and then here he is buying into it too. No wonder he always thinks he's right; no one disagrees. Not really.

"Steve," Clint says seriously, "you are practically a fucking saint. How the _hell_ are you part of the problem?"

"Don't swear like that," Steve says reflexively, then starts to laugh. He can't help it. "That's why. Because you expect me to correct you and tell you stuff like that. Because I always do. Because apparently I always know what's right and he doesn't know how to tell me that I'm not."

Clint chews his lip, takes a sip of his drink, then says:

"He could try opening his mouth and telling you to fuck off."

"Not everyone is the team, Clint. I don't know if you've lost touch with normal people because of work, but I'll be more than happy to have you assigned volunteer work to get you back in touch."

"Bully." Clint pouts, scowling some.

Steve shrugs.

"It is what it is. He's trying to figure himself out. He doesn't need my decisions clouding his judgement." He takes a long pull of his beer, wishing desperately that it could do anything to numb the sharp-edged ache of that truth. "What was I supposed to do? Tell him 'no, you can't?'"

"You really care about this guy, don't you? I mean, I don't know if it's possible for you not to care, but this is different."

Steve looks away from Clint.

"You know how long this will last?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Don't wait too long."

"And how am I supposed to know how long is too long?"

Clint shrugs.

"You're the one who knows him, not me. You know how big a change it is, so I guess you'll just have to go from there." Clint hesitates. "Is he worth it?"

Steve thinks of how Loki's hums indicate so many different things, the disposable cameras brought back from his trips so Steve can see the places he goes, how Loki simultaneously grounds him and dares him to try harder just by being around. He can picture the curve of Loki's spine when his head is thrown back, mouth parted and pupils blown wide; nearly feel Loki's hands running through his hair when they drowsily watch a movie on the couch; remembers the sound of Loki composing and how Loki's brow dips ever so slightly in concentration.

Loki is a presence, a splash of colour too vibrant and fiery to ignore in a world that often leave Steve lost and confused with its newness.

"Yes," he finally tells Clint. "That and more."

Clint studies him, then nods.

"Right. Well, wait. That's all I've got. Don't blame yourself too much; you tend to get way too martyr over things if you can blame yourself at all. I guess try to not assume you know the best."

"I'll try."

Clint stands, putting money under his glass to pay for the beer.

"Until then, beer is now a mandatory meeting when we're both in town. Got it?"

Steve chuckles, standing as well.

"Got it."

They walk outside; there's snow on the ground and it's cold. Steve pulls his coat closer.

"Shit, man, I think I'm going to fucking get cavities if he manages to get you any sweeter than you already are," Clint grumbles.

Steve barks a laugh before he can stop himself.

XXXXXX

"You've been avoiding me."

"No." A pause. "Maybe. Yes."

Olek sighs.

"You both will be the death of me. I have missed your company. Who else will listen to me complain about the state of art today, share stories of past triumphs, and help me pick perfect companions for all of our friends?"

Steve can't help grinning a little at Olek's melodrama.

"Sorry, I just—"

"Not a word, my friend. Not a word." Olek claps a hand on his shoulder as they sit down at the table, waiting on the rest of the guys to show up. "I understand, these things happen. I am only glad I have not lost your company for good."

"As if I could get rid of you," Steve says, looking away, waving as Mat comes in.

"You wound me, Steve, deeply—"

"Olek, shut up, we all know you've been worried sick over everything," Alec interrupts, sitting down on Steve's other side. "Sup dude?"

Steve shrugs.

"Not much, not lately."

"Hanging in there?"

Steve wonders a little how much Olek has told them about what happened.

"I'll manage."

Alec grins.

"Good." He punches Steve in the shoulder. "We've missed you, you big pretty meathead. Nick's going to have a cow when he sees you're back again."

"It's only been a month," Steve protests. "That's not even four meetings." A month, and Christmas right around the corner. Steve tries not to think about it; he's already going to be spending the time with the team, not let himself be alone, certainly not let himself wonder what Loki is doing.

"Four meetings too many," Olek says, and Alec nods his agreement.

"Maybe," Steve allows. He _has_ missed the bar and the guys.

XXXXXX

It isn't really unusual for Natasha to suddenly vanish from the Tower; she's still one of the best operatives in SHIELD's employ, perhaps the best, and she's almost constantly at work. It's also really not unusual for her hair to change colour, length, and style all the time.

The nose stud, incredibly vibrant and artistic makeup, and hair around her face dyed bright white is definitely a bit odd, though, and not in any way subtle like usual.

Steve catches himself staring and tries to think of something to say. Natasha smirks at him.

"Come on."

They are at a mall. There's a winter market that's set up shop inside, so it's even busier than it usually is—though certainly not as busy as it was a few weeks ago, just before Christmas—and they wander, surrounded by smell of food. They pass several groups of musicians as they walk through the mall-turned-market. They don't talk, not for a while; sometimes what Steve appreciates most about Natasha is they don't _have_ to talk to enjoy each other's company.

Steve buys some caramel coated popcorn, then they stop. Steve leans with his back to the railing and watches as people go by.

"He's good," Natasha says suddenly.

Steve glances at her, not even needing to ask. She is leaned onto the railing, looking at the plaza beneath them; her eyes slide over to meet his.

"Considering the circumstances, I've recommended similar protection as what's done for any high profile operative's relations."

"You didn't—" Natasha shakes her head and the question dies on his lips.

"Thor. Easy enough to tie everything back to him, even if he's not aware."

"Right." Steve looks down at his popcorn, rolling his tongue over the kernel in his mouth until it's little more than a trace of sweetness and mush. He swallows.

"He worries me," she says.

"Oh?"

"He's got a good poker face from too much practice. He's also kinder than I expected."

"You actually spoke to him? And he didn't recognize you?"

Natasha does her one shoulder shrug, head tilting slightly.

"That's a matter of time. He isn't looking." Her eyes narrow some. "He's doing alright, if you want to know. The time apart is helping."

Steve swallows.

"Good."

"There." She nods her head. "You can see yourself. He's different from when I first saw him with you."

Steve blinks, then twists around to look in the plaza. It's crowded, of course, stalls and people both.

"Fountain."

Steve is looking for Loki to be wandering—this is exactly the sort of thing Loki would want to wander through during lunch—but none of the people sitting on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the plaza are him. His eyes very nearly skip over the musicians, but catch on the familiar flash of Loki's favourite cobalt blue shirt. It's not so far away that Steve can't make out Loki's expression, near the side of the plaza they look down over.

There's a certain looseness to how Loki moves now, some tension Steve had never really noticed gone, and he's chuckling, elbowing against a second violinist Steve doesn't know. There is a third musician, a woman with a cello, who is laughing at them both, the other violinist snorting and saying something as he elbows Loki back. Loki only grins, dancing out of reach, speaking to those that are watching, then tucks his violin under his chin and plays a single note, long and quavering on the air, an eyebrow raised as he looks at his companion.

The second violinist rolls his eyes before he joins in on the same note. The cellist sits back, amused, and watches.

Steve has never seen Loki perform. Some of it is because he prefers to stay near New York and the Tower, some of it is because Loki had never asked him to come watch. Steve wonders if that was only because Loki didn't know how to ask if Steve would, if he assumed that Loki _would_ if he wanted Steve to show up. Like how Loki would tell Steve if he didn't want to do something. Watching him, though, he has to wonder if maybe Loki was relieved Steve never asked.

Loki is always graceful, even when he is at his most drunk and stumbling; this, however, is a glimpse of energy and passion that Steve is not used to seeing outside of the bedroom. The music itself glows, trills and swoops, taking on Loki's emotion as he plays.

Steve doesn't know much about music, but he'd hazard a guess to say that how Loki plays is near genius, talent few ever see in their life, inseparable from the emotions and health of the one who draws it forth. And he knows that the other violinist is playing, some sort of back and forth rippling between the two, a conversation Steve will never be able to understand—let alone have—with Loki, but he finds he doesn't really mind. Doesn't really care, even if the music is vibrant and dizzy and catching with its rhythms.

He drinks in Loki's smile, his contentment, and for the first time finds he doesn't resent Loki's decision.

"He _is_ different," Steve says softly, as if Loki might hear and catch sight of him.

He doesn't though. The song tumbles to an end, Loki engaging with the audience, gesturing between himself and the second violinist, smile touching his eyes.

XXXXXX

Sometimes, mostly when he starts to feel impatient, to wonder when Loki will say anything, he reminds himself of that afternoon. Reminds himself of how Loki moved, how he performed, the curve of his smile, the way he chuckled.

Of how Loki was different, happier, in the slightest of ways.

Steve knows he can't wait forever, but this isn't forever. Only a few weeks, a few months. A person doesn't find their voice all at once, Steve knows that even if he's always felt pretty sure of his own.

Most the time, though, he hardly notices the wait, too busy paying attention to his own behaviour, to creating some sort of divide between Captain America and himself, to making sure he listens to what people say, that he doesn't just automatically tell people 'this is what is right.' Reminds himself, time and again, he's only Steve Rogers, just a guy from Brooklyn.

That he's only human.

And that's alright.


	21. A Little Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's side. Enjoy~
> 
> **Warnings** : depression, thoughts of suicide

Things without Steve are... different.

(He forgets, sometimes, that they are not 'together,' reaches for his phone to ask about dinner before catching himself. Stares at it, irritated and sick that he forgot.)

Things do not go back to how they were before—that is impossible. Besides, he interacts socially _almost_ as much as he once did (before), a variety of people and places, so much of it his choosing (instead of relying on someone else to make this choice _for_ him—no required celebrations, no dignitaries to meet, no surprise trips out, no obligation to attend parties he does not want).

Most things his choice, really.

He does not need to keep seeing Janelle—after all, his agreement with Steve was why he went in the first place—but he does. She helps, more than he ever expected.

(And if he is _honest_ (and he is trying more, now, to be so with himself (though it is _difficult_ )), he will admit his head fills with less noise, that he feels more in control, that inexplicable desire to break tied to loathing does not hit him in waves and leave him shaking while he tries to keep from lashing out. Does not stop, but is less frequent. Lasts for less time because _now_ he has found thoughts and things which help ease it a little.)

(He still does not like himself, but that he can admit that at _all_...)

(Very, very rarely, he suspects that perhaps (perhaps) he is not so irredeemable as he believes.)

The medication seems to help as well. Not fix—Janelle is very firm there is nothing wrong, that it is only difference and another way to cope. He suspects _that_ is semantics, but he allows that the drugs are certainly effective.

It is different.

(And sometimes, most the time, he misses Steve's smile, Steve's laugh, so much of Steve, but he _knows_ that he still cannot voice anything, _knows_ that he will allow Steve to decide what is best, _knows_ that he still does not really know what he himself wants. So he does not call, not when waking with nightmares in a bed not his own, not when he stumbles upon a new cafe, not when he aches for the rich solid _warmth_ of Steve.)

But not... bad.

Perhaps what he finds most surprising about this time away from Steve is how... _understanding_ everyone is. The sympathy. Those that did know about his relationship—and there are not many, admittedly, perhaps six or seven all told—all _seem_ entirely supportive of his decision, no matter how much or little he tells them.

It is... _different_.

(He does not know anything similar, does not understand this reaction.)

But at least this, then, is truly not like _that_ moment ("this is goodbye"), and maybe ( _perhaps_ ) it was, in fact, for the best.

The... something (hope?) that twines in his chest at the thought is... pleasant.

(Some tiny near-insignificant step, shaky confidence, that he has made a choice and it has not been the _worst_ he could make (not like all the others))

XXXXXX

One afternoon, he is leaving his apartment when he notices that he has a new neighbor to his left. There are boxes stacked by the door, and a smaller woman comes out. She seems passing familiar (but _where_ he has seen her, he does not know).

It is late December. The stairs are slick with melted ice and salt, the wind a bit biting.

"Hello," he offers her curious glance, though he does not quite smile.

"Hi. I'm Scarlett," she says, a quick grin on her features (and _surely_ he has met her somewhere else, but then he is also certain he'd remember someone with white dyed bangs and facial piercings).

He offers his hand to shake. She takes it, a strength he does not expect in her grip.

"Luke. Do you need any help? It's a little cold to be moving alone." He does not mind the thoughtful look she gives him; considering what he brought to this city once he cannot find fault with people finding him threatening.

(Even if they do not _know_.)

But then it passes and Scarlett is smiling

"Sure! I'd love the help."

He learns as he helps that, like many of the other residents of the apartment, she is some manner of artist; specifically working with wet clay that has left permanent stains beneath her nails. She has just moved from a tiny town outside of St. Louis, is an only child, practices something that he assumes passes for combat on Midgard, and, as it turns out, deeply loves coffee.

(He is less surprised by the last; most mortals he has met adore the drink. He likes it specifically with milk (ignores the pang of 'milk with coffee, you mean') and generally only gets mocha or tea when he goes out.)

He assumes she can cook better than he, though doesn't know. He orders take-out from his favourite Indian restaurant after he has helped her move in, and leaves the leftovers with her ("Consider it a welcome gift, and believe me that it is better than any item I could have made you"), stopping by his own apartment to grab his violin.

As he leaves, he senses eyes watching him. He ignores it; it is a familiar enough sensation in this city.

XXXXXX

He realizes that morning he has nothing and nowhere to be—Christmas, a holiday it seems everyone has closed for, sent Lethe back to St. Louis and Olek to Russia.

(Part of him is so _relieved_ that no one will be stopping by unannounced.)

(The rest wishes he wasn't _alone_.)

Sylvia calls him to wish him a happy holiday and make sure he is well (all of them have done this, at some point, check-ins to make sure he is fine; at least, the ones he has told about leaving Steve. He finds it near overwhelming and bewildering, even now near a month since then).

On finding out that he does _not_ , in fact, have plans, there is a great deal of to-do, the phone is passed to Sam, and Sam makes a rather convincing case for at least coming by for dinner.

(A relief, to have this unexpected reason to see someone, to enjoy food that he does not need to prepare himself, to _do_ something.)

He does not have a gift for the couple, but they both insist it hardly matters.

"Bring your violin," Sylvia tells him cheerfully, phone successfully recovered from her husband. "We were going to go out after dinner to play for a few places—it's just something we do every year, an orphanage, two old folks' homes. Sam gets dressed up like Santa. If you're up for it?"

"Of course," Loki assures, and he doesn't hesitate (much).

"Great! We'll see you soon. Really, you could come by now, we've already finished visiting all our family's homes and you know you're always welcome," she says.

"Of course," he says, this time with a smile, a bit of certainty, "I will head over now."

(A relief, to have somewhere he almost feels like he _belongs_.)

XXXXXX

He enjoys drinking his coffee in the mornings outside. When the weather is nice (by her standards) and she is awake, sometimes Lethe will join him.

The weather is most certainly not nice by Lethe's standards this morning. The early January sun is hidden by clouds, snow falling in thick flurries, fresh ice riming everything; his breath and the mug both steam like Nidhogg's breath (though both smell less foul, thankfully) and his fingertips near hurt at the contrast of hot and cold.

(but he likes the cold, always has preferred cold to hot, and tries not to dwell on it; he is _human_ now, all of him, and a low buzz of irritation rises; today, he suspects, will not be easy.)

He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and sips his coffee, focusing on the flavour of milk and bitter that warms his center and keeps a little of the chill nipping him at bay.

(Better.)

He hears a door open behind him and half-turns, curious; Scarlett is coming out, bundled up, a bag slung over her shoulder and balancing a folder on top of her thermos. She blinks at him, gaze three parts thoughtful and one part curious (and _surely_ he recognizes that look), before seeming to realize her door is still open and quickly shutting it.

"Where are you from, the North Pole? It's _freezing_ out here." She shoves her keys in her coat pocket then puts the folder in her bag, taking a contemplative sip of coffee.

"It's not that bad," he says, smirk tugging his lips.

"'Not that bad.' You are standing in," she checks her phone, "you are standing in fourteen degree weather in some pajamas, fuzzy... were those bunnies at one point? slippers, and a bathrobe. Sipping coffee. Without gloves. Wait, you don't even have socks on. Are you shirtless under your robe?" She frowns at him. "Are you sick? Suicidal? Do I need to make sure you don't jump?"

( _Falling and star glimmer and blackhopelessdespa_ —

His smile grows more forced, hands grip his mug a little more tightly, joints aching at the pressure.

"Yes to the shirt, no to the rest. None of those."

(Not at the moment.)

Scarlett shakes her head.

"You're an odd duck, Luke. One seriously odd duck. Well, don't freeze."

"I will do my best. Have a pleasant day."

She stops, startled, to look at him (he certainly knows that look, where was it? Must have only seen it once or twice, it's _right_ on the tip of his to—

"You too, dude." And then she's bounding (he hopes she doesn't slip) down the stairs and on her way.

XXXXXX

As it would turn out once she had chance to settle in, he is often awake and outside before Scarlett leaves each day. One morning she joins him, bundled much more than he, clutching a mug of what smells like hot chocolate close for warmth.

"How the hell do you do this?" she asks after a few minutes when he serenely keeps sipping his coffee while watching the street below.

"Well, I begin by filling the tea kettle, set the milk out—"

"Smart ass."

He smiles.

(Today, he feels, will not be so difficult. He is excited; this afternoon he, Sam, and Sylvia are going to perform at a winter market; he has a certain delight in street playing (songs that allow for ornamentation, flourish, and _spirit_ ), and little is more soothing than playing with his two friends who think and talk music much as he does.)

"What do you _do_ anyway? I always see you out here in the mornings."

"I am a musician. Composition, primarily, though also conducting and, when able, performing." He takes a sip of coffee before he rambles, keeping his face blank (waiting on the scorn that a grown man would involve himself with music at all).

"Oh, wow. Really?" Her eyes are a bit wide.

"Yes." Another sip.

"That's wicked cool. Seriously. Have you always done that? I mean, you must be doing pretty well, living here."

He hesitates,

(but she has not found him less, seems truly impressed about the music, that he indulges and provides for himself with such a... childish and female activity)

then finds himself saying, "I used to art model, for a few of the schools in the area. Pleasant enough work, easy, until I better knew my way." A pause, then impulsive offering, "I moved here very recently, only the beginning of last year."

"Daaaamn. That's crazy. Most people wouldn't be able to do all that. I'm guessing that's why you always come stand out to freeze in the cold? Remind you of home?"

He shrugs.

"I like the cold."

(That is _okay_ , it is _not_ monstrous to enjoy the cold, there are plenty of Aesir and humans alike who enjoy the cold, so many holidays here on Midgard that come at this time of year, and he does not feel vulnerable.)

(Today is meant to be _well_ and instead he wants to strangle someone now.)

"Odd duck," she says. He does not look at her, only examines his coffee as if how the milk swirls is the most intriguing thing in the world (instead of how slender her neck is).

(His hands itch a little—

_seventh augmented fifth: dominant seventh, sharp fifth; seventh flat nine: dominant seventh, flat ninth; half-diminished seventh: minor seventh, flat fifth_

—and then they only ache for his piano, to explore a little more of jazz.)

"I suppose," he says, because it has only been a few moments.

(A shorter time than most days; perhaps today will be well after all.)

"Well, that's my hot chocolate and I don't think you could pay me to stay out here." She grins at him; he offers some small token smile back. "Hurry and finish yours before you get frost-bite. Hey, let's do breakfast sometime."

He blinks at her, startled.

"You do eat breakfast right? There's this cafe with this really great biscuits and gravy I know, my treat."

"I," he searches for some excuse (tries to push down the swell and ache, because the last time he'd had biscuits and gravy was with Steve, near two months ago). "I suppose. I eat it sometimes."

"That settles it then. I'll stick a note under your door or something, so keep an eye out. Later!"

Before he can say anything else, she has ducked back into her apartment. He stares puzzled at it, unsure what he has done or said to make her wish to spend more time with him.

(More certain he has met her before.)

He shakes it off. He needs to get dressed properly and run a few errands before this afternoon; he promised the others he would supply drinks, and they are all meeting together for lunch before they set up to perform.

XXXXXX

"What," he asks Lethe as they walk back together, "do you think of her?"

Lethe glances at him; she is wearing a black cloak with some rich purple lining, a lovely swirl of silver clasping it. The first time he saw her wear it, he was surprised, if only because cloaks are not a thing in common usage on M—Earth any longer; he has long since put it aside and added it to his list of reasons he likes her.

"She seems nice enough. Not so sure about some of her opinions, and I don't know if I'd want to hang out with her that often."

"You generally don't want to hang out with anyone that often," he points out, amused. Lethe can go an entire week without anything but incidental contact, sometimes longer. (Occasionally, he finds he'd rather only be around one or two people instead of many; he gets odd looks when he jests that he is being antisocial, though he _is_. Antisocial here means something else.)

"There is nothing wrong with that," she protests. "People are messy and don't communicate clearly. Or communicate at all sometimes."

"I suppose."

(How he failed and fails to communicate; the thought is unbidden, sharp, some melancholy bitterness twisting at his insides.)

"She just seems a little off. There's something that doesn't sit right, and I don't know what it is. My family lives in Webster Groves, and I've still got plenty of friends who use the pottery studio there, I used to use it, but no one's ever mentioned her and I've never seen her. It's just a little odd. Maybe she had her own or goes somewhere else. What do _you_ think of her?"

"I feel I've met her before," he says absently, distracted. "Would you like ice cream?"

"What."

"Ice cream. There is a small place, just around the corner. They should be open by now."

"Is this that place you were always telling me about last summer? That you and Steve would go to?"

"N—perhaps." Not truth, but closer than outright lying.

"We can get ice cream if it'll help."

He glances at her, but she is still looking ahead.

"No. No. No need." Just want. A reminder, something to fall back on, but that isn't the point of all this.

"You know if there is anything I can do to help you just need to ask, right?"

"Right." He chuckles darkly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "You are far too kind to me, Lethe."

"Eh. You're an okay guy, you actually know all my weird kitchen rules, and you're fun to talk to. You help me, I help you; works out for both of us, doesn't it?" She grins at him before they head up the stairs of the apartment building.

He watches her for a few moments, hand on the bitterly cold metal railing.

"I suppose so," he murmurs, too quiet for her to hear, and follows.

XXXXXX

There was never any question that he would continue to associate with Lethe when he left Steve; Lethe rarely spoke to Steve (granted, only because she spent much of her time holding her breath and trying not to make fool of herself at first) and generally only interacted with him due to Loki.

Olek, however, was a different question.

(It was Olek he felt need to most explain himself to, Olek who brought them together however incidentally, Olek who listened and nodded and seemed to think, when Loki had said everything he could (and most of it truth)(felt drained and exhausted), that it perfectly reasonable for Loki to desire a little time without Steve. Had helped him decide what to say, how to say it; when he asked 'why' Olek had only smiled and said he wished to see them both happy, together.

It seemed counter-intuitive, Olek's faith that this would only be 'time apart' and not 'farewell', still seems strange that Olek never presses or asks after how he feels, if he thinks it will be soon, even though it is drawing close to end of February. As if the length of time is no matter, as if he knows Steve will wait, as if he trusts Loki to decide what is best and _when_ it is best.

He does not pretend to understand Olek.)

At first, he did not wish to see Olek at all (did not wish to see anyone), busied himself with a thousand other tasks until his mind felt exhausted and didn't ache and echo every moment without Steve; that night he had called Olek, mind turn traitor, cold and shaking and gripping tight to the railing of a pier, staring down at the water below, at how very _black_ it was compared to the star glimmer off the edge of the Bifrost. Olek had listened calmly while he babbled (and that was what it was, weary and barely coherent from too many sleepless nights), babbled about Steve, about how he surely had done the wrong thing (just as he always has), about how _alone_ he felt, about the water, until Olek had finally interrupted to ask him where he was, talked to him about nothings until he arrived, and taken him home.

When he tried to apologize, Olek had only smiled and waved the words away.

"I told you I would take care of things, yes? Yes. Even if you do not remember. Now, you speak to your lovely Janelle about it, stop apologizing for needing a little help sometimes, and stop avoiding me." He had clapped Loki's shoulder, ordered his coffee, and acted as if there was nothing else to speak of.

And, Loki supposed, that was all there was to it for Olek.

XXXXXX

"Hey, hey, we have made it!" Olek elbows Loki in the side and Loki looks up, keys in hand, pleasantly drunk (Olek insisted they stop drinking and they walk back to Loki's place; Loki does not mind, trusts that Olek has a better sense for when he has enough because he still forgets, especially when drinking, what being human involves).

"So we have," he says, sorting through his keys and finding the one for his apartment. "So we have." He rests his forehead against the door as he unlocks it, then pushes his way inside. "Come, there are movies inside."

When Olek doesn't follow, he leans back to peer around the door frame.

"Olek?"

Olek is blinking in surprise; Loki follows his gaze and spies Scarlett.

"Scarlett! Hello!" He smiles cheerfully, backing up out of the apartment and clapping Olek on the shoulder. "Olek, this is the new neighbor, not really new anymore are you?, Scarlett, I told you about her. She keeps trying to take me to breakfast, can you believe that? Actually seems to want to know me, moved in late December. Charming dear. Scarlett," he says, grinning, "should you not be out? Do you have no plans this eve? We are celebrating it being over, mmm, what was it?"

"Over freezing," Olek supplies.

"Yes! Over freezing. Almost jacket weather."

"Ah," she glances at Olek, "yes, no plans. Hi, Olek."

Olek grins.

"The pleasure is all mine, Scarlett. You will, naturally, wish to join us! Unless you object, Luke?"

"Not at all! Come in, come in." He grabs both of them by the wrist, pulling them into the apartment and kicking the door shut with his foot. "Let the warmth out we leave the door open. Movies, yes. Shoes off by the door, please," he says to Scarlett before she steps further in, "coat on the door yes there you go." He crouches down by the bookcase near the television, starts to pull the various movies off and spreads them on the floor. "Don't mind the mess, it usually is much cleaner. Right, drinks, I am a terrible host, allow me—" He starts to stand, then tumbles as Olek puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You take care of the movies, yes? Pick something, I shall take care of the drinks."

"You will make a mess of my kitchen! I am the host! You would make fool of my hos—"

"No no, only you are much pickier over movies. I shall go, take care of drinks. Pick something. I swear I shall not put anything out of place."

Loki eyes Olek; Olek grins back, charming as can be.

"If I find _one thing_ out of place—"

"Relaaax. Relax." Olek rubs his shoulders; it feels spectacularly nice and he lets his eyes close and head lean forward. "You stress too much." One last pat to his shoulder, then Olek leaves, pulling Scarlett with him to the kitchen. Their chatter is cheerful background noise as Loki sorts through the movies. Snippets of conversation drift around him, but he ignores them; his hand pauses as he picks up _Double Indemnity_.

The first noir he watched with Steve.

"Luke?"

He blinks, glancing up, and smiles.

Olek is watching him, catches sight of the movie he holds.

"Hey, let's pick something else, yes? That only makes you melancholy, and Luke, I hate to say this, but you are heartbreaking when you are sad."

Loki rolls his eyes, puts it away in favour of _M_.

"Wait, do you own basically every film noir worth owning?" Scarlett suddenly says. Loki near jumps out of his skin, heart-thudding; he'd forgotten she was here. He glances at the movies spread around him on the floor.

"Yes," he says, slightly smug. "And a few not worth owning, a number that influenced the early movement and creation of noir, some that were influenced by noir. Like _Memento_." Olek had not appreciated the collection, but it is nice _someone_ does. He gives Olek a meaningful look, but Olek is smiling his distracted smile, watching Scarlett.

Loki frowns.

"I've always liked some of the neo-noirs, too. Do you have _Chinatown_?"

"Yes!" He plucks it out. "We are watching this."

"Scarlett, _moya dorogaya_ , you do not know what you have started."

"No Russian," Loki snaps, pointing his finger at Olek.

"No Icelandic," Olek returns with a grin.

Loki regards Scarlett, who seems much more quiet than usual; she's watching Olek carefully. He frowns once more.

"No French," he tells her; he has no idea if she speaks French, but no reason to leave her out, and he hears that French is the language of love.

She blinks at him, startled, and grins.

"No French," she promises.

(That smile is so _very_ familiar.)

They settle on the couch as the movie starts to play; he sits between the other two, settles in, stealing Olek's drink and sipping at the brandy. He likes this movie, finds himself getting wrapped up in it though he has seen it before, but he keeps getting distracted. Olek keeps half-glancing at Scarlett, and she at him. He wonders a little. Between films, she gets up to use the bathroom and he follows Olek to the floor to pick out the next movie.

"You want to switch spots?" he asks seriously.

"Hmm?"

"On the couch."

"Why? I am comfortable, you are comfortable, Scarlett is comfortable, everyone is comfortable."

"You like her."

Olek chokes on the sip of brandy he is taking.

"You do!" he crows, delighted. "That settles it. We shall switch."

Olek stares at him like he's gone mad, still struggling to get his breath back.

"She likes you. You both keep making eyes at each other; it is frankly uncomfortable." Loki grins. "Do not be ashamed. I am sure that I can be nearly so good a match maker as you! I am very observant, I can tell these things."

"You," Olek says sternly, "are completely oblivious." He puts the next movie in and drags Loki back to the couch. Scarlett raises an eye as she sees them. Loki grins at her, wide and charming, only more sure as her gaze lingers a bit on Olek. He tries to move over, so that Olek can sit next to Scarlett; Olek keeps a firm hand on his shoulder and sits down next to him.

"Someone's had a bit much to drink." Scarlett settles down on the couch again.

"Hardly." It feels like he needs explain this to everyone. "I can—"

"Drink not much more than that," Olek finishes. He glares at Olek, snatches Scarlett's drink to take a sip.

"You won't like it," Olek says, eyes on the television.

He tries it anyway, then makes himself swallow it (doesn't want to ruin his clothes).

"That was atrocious. I don't even _have_ tomato juice, how did you make this, this is vile, and you _put that in one of my glasses_ oh Valhalla I'll never get the taste out, you drink that?"

"You did have some, actually."

"Take it you don't like Bloody Marys then?" Scarlett takes her drink back, clearly suppressing a smile.

"Is _that_ what you call that vile substance?"

"Yes. How have you never had a Bloody Mary before?"

"I will have you know that I amfff—" he breaks off, Olek's hand over his mouth, and elbows the Russian in the ribs.

"Very drunk," Olek says with a wince, charming as ever. Scarlett is staring at Olek again, some tension in the air between them. Loki pushes Olek's hand aside.

"Oh for Nidhogg's sake, just _kiss_ already and stop eye-fucking over me."

Both of them stop, staring at him, and he hopes he used the correct term; Olek looks less than amused, Scarlett just surprised. He glares at them both, crossing his arms.

"Worse than Thor and Sif," he grumbles.

Scarlett laughs then, loud and long; it's a very pretty laugh.

"He thinks that... you think that I have the hots for Olek?"

Loki blinks at her.

Olek sighs.

"He is very drunk," he points out.

"This is precious. I wish I had a video camera right now. Absolutely no one will believe me later."

Olek says something sharp and angry to her in Russian. Loki thinks he might go cross-eyed at the mood whiplash, from C major to F-sharp minor, then Scarlett is replying, just as fast, the two of them almost arguing, he thinks, only he might be sick for all the sharps, neither of them quite on key.

He grabs both of them by their shirts, pulling them down.

" _No Russian_ ," he says, trying to be stern but instead coming off woozy. He looks past them to the movie; he'd forgotten about it. He quite likes _Pulp Fiction_ , then wonders if he owns any movie he does not like. "The movie is in English. We should watch the movie. Especially if you two are not going to randomly kiss in my lap."

He lets them go, everyone easing back into their spots, tension relaxed.

This is, he thinks, nice.

Even if they _were_ going to try and make out in his lap.

He stirs at one point but does not open his eyes, unsure when he fell asleep, sprawled against Olek, one leg dangling off the couch, the other half-resting on Scarlett's lap. Olek's hands in his hair and against his neck feel soothing, relaxing. Scarlett has a hand on his calf, small half-moons rubbed through his pants. They are talking softly, television off.

It feels a bit like warmth, home.

(not alone)

He drifts asleep again.

XXXXXX

There is a note taped to the arm of the couch when he wakes, head dull thudding and feeling more than a bit cross-eyed. He examines it briefly before he gets up.

It feels like every bone in his spine is realigning and cracking back into place. He grumbles and goes to set the kettle on to make some coffee, almost instinct directing him to the shower. He rests his head against the tile while the hot water eases the last of the aches, idly going over the events of the night before.

Olek's tension. Scarlett's surprise. The Russian. Very familiar Russian. He frowns, gets out of the shower as he hears the kettle start to shriek, and pours it into the French press.

Webster Groves and how no one Lethe knew knew her.

He adds his milk, frown growing, something not unlike icy black rage building in his temples.

That very particular look, examining and dissecting with quick efficiency, storing, and then moving on.

Obvious, he thinks, in retrospect.

He pulls his bathrobe on and steps outside.

"Natasha," he says coolly to the woman already waiting on him.

She nods her head.

"You took longer than I thought to figure it out."

"A lapse on my part." He shuts the door behind himself. "Steve, then?"

"No, actually. You."

He frowns at her.

"I've hardly done anything worth note."

"You left Steve. He wouldn't tell me anything, so here I am."

"Getting close and then what? You've long since had your moment."

She shakes her head.

"That was me. I already told SHIELD to leave you alone before I ever moved in. I wanted to see what you're like now."

"And I'm just meant to _believe_ that?" His head is pounding, throbbing, hangover aided by this sick twisting fury ( _terror_ ) that pulses in his head.

"You can believe what you want."

"Why did you stay?"

She studies him and he studies her back. He does not trust her, remembers well the last time they spoke (but can he truly consider it that, with all the times since, with her as Scarlett?). Even if she had misinterpreted what he was after, it did not change that he could not, cannot, read her.

"You make a good neighbor."

"Do _not_ jest with me," he snarls, stepping towards her. "I am not such a _fool_ to be—"

"You are."

He stops in his tracks, at the certainty and honesty in her voice, how few of her shields she leaves up. There is something dark in her eyes, behind them, something he has perhaps seen in one too many nightmare, something he recognizes as some echo of madness.

"You helped me move in without hardly anything, made sure I had food that first day. You introduced me to Lethe, said hello and were polite in the mornings, asked me to go places if I wasn't busy. I don't know if you just are that social that you make friends with all your neighbors, but I get a feeling you're a lot more choosey about who you spend time with and who you just greet."

She pauses for a second then adds (he _knows_ this is calculated and it does nothing to change the fact his anger is melting):

"It was nice, being treated like just another person. Being a sort-of friend, not having someone look at me and be frightened because all they know are the stories. Getting to see you now, with your own change."

He frowns at her and thinks.

"You said that SHIELD won't get involved?"

"You don't have your magic, you aren't intent on committing any crimes. Honestly, you're making a better effort at being a good person than I am in a shorter amount of time." She flicks a smile. "Might just be who you love though; mine tends more towards swearing and killing people, yours tends towards saving kittens and trying to find every alternative to a fight he can."

It's like some sort of weight he didn't even know was there is gone.

(Part of him, vicious and cold and spite, whispers it is because he is too weak to be a threat, too _human_ , magicless; he shoves it down and away. If he wants, he can be a threat. He still has his mind, and as much as it betrays him it is still his greatest asset; he suspects Natasha knows that.)

He takes a sip of his coffee and studies her some more, but he doesn't feel like he's going to snap. Just like he has a hangover.

"Steve didn't tell you anything?"

"No."

Then:

"He still misses you."

"I'm sure." Loki sips his coffee to avoid saying more, to avoid acknowledging more, to center again. "I am not telling you what happened."

She smirks.

"I wouldn't expect you to. You certainly wouldn't have told Scarlett. Want to get breakfast?"

He finds he feels absolutely no obligation to do so; no wounded looks, no worry, no threat of repercussion if he disagrees, no obligation because the other person knows what is best.

"This... this whatever it is. It does not go beyond us?"

"Not if you don't want."

He hums.

"You're buying. Because you lied."

She grins.

"Fair enough."

XXXXXX

Somehow, it becomes a routine of sorts: who has lied most buying for who has lied least when they eat together. Not spilling secrets, no, but simply aimless talking.

Something that helps, to speak with someone who understands in some strange way, a certain measure of self-loathing, can understand _why_ it is there at all. Someone equally... broken, in their own way.

He wouldn't call her a friend, but then not everyone needs to be such. Janelle has mentioned group therapy and support networks; Natasha fits well enough in that role, friend or no.

XXXXXX

Some days, he very nearly feels _well._

Oh, his anger still bubbles beneath the surface, still sometimes catches himself looking at his hands for any glimmer of magic, still struggles to sleep, still sometimes finds himself staring a bit too fascinated at ledges and how very _far_ things are (at visible _landing_ ). He still hates his own weaknesses and that they need be acknowledged at all. Some days feel as if they slide backwards, some days feel like nothing but some manic _hate_ , but it does not stop him from _doing_ , not anymore (not often).

He does not need Steve. Not to decide what to do, where to go, what is best.

(Has been able, of late, to make more than one decision, however small, that proves as much.)

But, he thinks, he would like to try things again with Steve. Just try. To know how this will work, now that he has a voice, however quiet, and a willingness to use it, however shy.

If it is only the first hints of spring air, well... spring has always been a season for the bold.

He calls the last Tuesday of March.


	22. Make Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday is not, despite what this series might suggest, my favourite day of the week.
> 
> However, it _is_ Steve and Loki's favourite day of the week, so I like to do very nice things on Tuesdays with them. 
> 
> So there.

Loki is different now.

In little ways.

A smile to his lips more readily. A certain surety to his 'no's. More ready to object more often (though still a flicker pause of hesitance).

The fact Loki starts things more often, does not drift from suggestion to suggestion, voices want and expects (with some ghost of fear in his eyes) to be heard.

And Steve is different too, some doubting questioning voice in the back of his own head- _do I want this or is this good? Am I listening? Is he really okay with this?_

Maybe...

no.

No.

Steve was _wrong_ , he will admit that.

He can be good for Loki sometimes. But he is not what is best and he wants Loki much more than Loki _needs_ him. He can guess but...

Steve doesn't know what's best for Loki.

He was wrong.

XXXXXX

The first few dates are a beginning again. Learning. Steve's nervousness is sick and twisting now, though, where once it was delight and anticipation. What can he ask? How much is too far? Is this okay?

It's slower.

(Or maybe not but it _feels_ slower. This time, Loki does not crowd his every thought.)

Steve feels lost.

(But when Loki smiles, quick quirk of lips, eyes still as nervous as Steve feels, he feels a little more sure.)

XXXXXX

Steve avoids surprises, dropping by and whisking away. Loki he knows (now, after the fact, but he's glad he can put the knowledge to use at all) does not like them. Or only sometimes.

At the very least Steve calls first, hours ahead.

(Loki's voice reveals so much more now.)

XXXXXX

Though Loki does not enjoy surprises, he seems to realize Steve loves the sudden adventure-Loki calls, tells him to get a picnic blanket and meet him at his apartment at seven.

Steve has no idea what Loki's planning but he does it anyway. Loki's cheeks are flush from the late spring chill, a bounce in his step. He catches Steve's hand and they go to his car.

(Loki still hates driving.)

They go to the beach, an echo of another time. Steve's steps hesitate but Loki navigates through the beach house and stands impatient at the back patio, waiting on Steve to catch up. Steve crosses that old memory and Loki tugs the blanket out of his hands with a huff, twines their fingers together, and pulls Steve down to the shore.

Steve helps Loki lay the blanket out before they sit down. Loki leans against Steve, Steve wraps an arm around Loki's shoulders, and they gaze at the stars all vibrant shimmer in the sky.

(It feels like peace, comfort, warmth, all the things Steve has missed.)

"So just want to see the stars?"

Loki snorts and grabs Steve's wrist to look at his watch.

"No. There's a... meteor shower? tonight. A great number of falling stars. I thought we could make wishes."

Steve's breath catches and he looks away from Loki to the sky, casts for something to say, heart warm in his chest.

"You make wishes on falling stars in Asgard too?"

Kicks himself.

Loki tenses a little but his response comes fast. It's not... bitter, either. Not very.

Huh.

"Of course they do. What, you think it a total backwater?"

Loki looks amused.

Steve can't help it. He kisses him.

It's all softness and sliding wet warmth, easy-familiar. They kiss for a while, exploring like they've never done this, tangling in each other's arms. Steve pulls away first, cannot find his breath despite the distance.

It's the first kiss that tastes like _before_.

"How long?" Steve asks instead of three words on his lips.

"Oh, it should have started by now. Any moment I imagine."

"There," Steve murmurs, catching star flash.

"Yes," Loki hums, leaning back into Steve, eyes to the sky. "Make a wish," he whispers.

"You first," Steve jokes.

(He wishes he can be wise enough, smart enough, _aware_ enough, to not lose Loki again.)

Loki hums and the sky sparkles showers of light.

(He wishes that this will last and he have the strength to let go if he must.)

His grip tightens on Loki's hand and there is an answering squeeze.

(He wishes to be better and not just _told_ he is.)

"I love you," he says unthinking.

Loki stirs a little against him, shift slides and settles closer still, lips brushing the shell of Steve's ear:

"I believe you."


	23. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone remember those halycon days of double updates? 
> 
> Yeah, me neither.
> 
> So have one today~

This is... unusual.

It is not to say he is unhappy.

But that Steve desired to begin this again at all... well, he is, to say the least, _surprised_.

(But is that truly unexpected? Certainly so much of how this began was (just over a year ago? Truly?) Steve surprising him, again and again, in how he _continues_ to surprise him, even when he is being his most predictable.)

Steve is different now, more hesitant and more questioning—in different ways, with both his eyes and his words, and always repeating, always noticing small signs that very few have ever _truly_ noticed. Fewer surprises and the surprises come with hours notice, more awareness of when some event or thing truly displeases him, and never once does Steve ever act as if his own pleasures and displeasures are any _less_ than Steve's.

(It is different.)

(But not bad.)

They fumble more (and yet Loki cannot help how his heart swells and pulse races as Steve laughs and grins abashed at these incidents). He wants... closer. Something that only they do, and together, a _surprise_ for Steve (who he recognizes _now_ loves these only just planned adventures, as if making up for the distress of his _other_ unplanned events that are part and parcel of being an Avenger).

A flyer for ballroom dance is hanging on a bulletin board of a university they are visiting (a guest speaker on music and the mind; how could he resist?). He hums as he studies it; Steve's head turns automatically at the sound.

"Ballroom dancing, huh? Glad to see they still teach that stuff."

"Is it from before, then?" (That is how they talk, still, despite sometimes ( _sometimes_ ) addressing it— _before_ : before they learned to walk, before their hands would seek out and twine together, before fumbling their way _together_.)

"Sort of. Most people I knew could foxtrot and swing. You know how to dance?"

"Of course," Loki says automatically. "How could I not? Though I do not know any of Mi—Earth."

"Huh. Guess I never thought about that."

Loki notes the slight frown that crosses Steve's features, there and gone.

They keep walking, winding their way to the lecture hall the speaker is at.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Know how to dance? You said most that you knew, but not you "

Steve chuckles awkwardly.

"Not all of us pick out words do carefully as you you know," Steve says with his boyish grin that _nearly_ makes Loki forget his question.

"But do you?" he persists.

(There is a hint of an idea, a seedling of surprise, that twitches in his mind.)

"No," Steve says with a melancholy smile. "Never had the right partner."

Loki hums again.

(And perhaps Steve knows him more than he thought, at the slightly worried look he is getting.)

XXXXXX

As it turns out, much like near everything _else_ he has thus far encountered on Mid—Earth, there are hundreds of varieties and styles of a single thing. It is near breath-taking how _frequently_ these people manage to create so very much in so relatively short a period of time (though he finds, more and more, that this does not _feel_ short and wonders if perhaps he has only gotten used to life here).

Dance, Loki feels, is quite suited to what he wants (can sense, from that brief melancholy, that it somehow means _something_ to Steve; perhaps something that he could not do before?), will be some sort of way to reestablish that trust and closeness he so desires. Of perhaps no longer... fumbling as much, of awkwardness and stumbling over words as one or the other of them suddenly realizes they have spoken of or done something that may upset the other.

There is trust inherent in learning to dance, after all, in the willingness to make a fool of oneself before another, in letting another guide, in guiding another, in the shared physical contact.

(Physicality, which they have barely dared examine, which has been nothing but soft, hesitant brushes, with only the occasional kiss or two that is truly relaxed and familiar and bold until they remember the break.)

Besides, Loki has no reason to spar anymore (suspects Steve would refuse for fear of hurting him), the only other activity he knows that might come close to helping erode this... well, shyness.

He asks among his acquaintances until he is directed by several recommendations to a class that will cover from early ballroom to swing and signs them up together (and what a wonder, he thinks, that no one blinks at two men being partners here (or if they do, do not do it before them)).

XXXXXX

"You should try to be available from six to eight on Tuesdays and Thursdays," he tells Steve casually over coffee, keeping his gaze elsewhere. This feels too bold, but then, he supposes, that is something of the point.

"Um. Okay. Your place or mine?"

"We can meet here, it is closest for both of us."

"Okay."

There is curiosity written all over Steve's face, a slight smile and his blue eyes glimmer with something like hope and definitely joy. Loki smiles slight at him, reaches out, and takes his hand.

(and that, that has not changed; that still feels _right_ )

XXXXXX

"Loki," Steve hisses to him quietly, "this is a _dance class_."

"Yes," he says, grinning wide (really, Steve should have _realized_ , he was certainly not subtle that evening at the college). "It is. You seemed like you had not had much chance to dance before."

A few people look over at them. Steve offers them his best press smile and Loki only grins wider.

"Besides, I thought it might be something we could learn together." He glances over at Steve, flutter hesitance before adding, "I would like to know how this works with you."

Steve blinks at him, surprise evident in his features, then grins—his honest grin, the one that softens his features and makes Loki's heart warm and everything feel like _home_. (And he does _not_ —no (honesty, both with himself and others), he does, very much does, love that grin, and _has_ missed, more than anything, seeing it frequently.)

"I suppose I've certainly found a partner," Steve says, then (despite the others in the room, and _that_ is a surprise, something _else_ changed) leans forward and kisses him: brief, but no less bold (no less familiar echo)(decides that this will have been worth it for that kiss alone).

There is something to the words there that Loki does not know, can tell he does not know, but he is not sure how to ask that question and the instructor is calling everyone's attention to the front of the room so he looks away, stepping closer to Steve, shoulders brushing.

Their hands slip and slide, until their fingers intertwine, each gripping just a little tight, just a little firm, just enough to say _I am here with you_.


	24. A Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst. Hi. 
> 
> How are you?
> 
> I'm great. Thanks for sticking around. <3
> 
> Have an update. Whee little thing. Pretty sweet too. Fitting, cause tomorrow is this particular Loki's birthday. Isn't that sweet? 
> 
> This is a few months after we last left them.

"Loki, I don't think moving in together is really a healthy response," Steve says.

Loki's eyes narrow.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Well—"

"Because if you think this has anything to do with you coming out to the team, you are sorely mistaken," Loki says, attention returning to his food.

(It's _not_ a good response, suddenly wanting to move in together as Steve started talking about telling the team he likes men. Loki's given reasons all make sense, though, not to mention Steve’s been half-wanting to suggest it himself. They do basically live together anyway, this _would_ be more convenient, and it's been months since they got back together again.)

XXXXXX

Steve waits until Pepper's alone.

"So do you happen to know a real estate agent?" he asks.

Pepper slows down, but doesn't quite stop walking, so Steve hurries to catch up to her, falling in step.

"Potentially. What are you looking for?"

Steve thinks over Loki's ideas (more like _Ideas_ ) about what they should look for.

"Just an apartment for now, but it's going to have to be nice."

Pepper's brow quirks up, but she doesn't pry.

"Sure. I know a few people, and one of them owes me a favour. I'll get you his number."

"Thanks, Pepper."

XXXXXX

"I asked Pepper and she recommended a real estate agent," Steve says over lunch.

Loki looks up, clearly taken off-guard.

"You actually would like to...?"

"Well, yes? I thought you wanted to?"

"Since when has what I wanted had any bearing?"

"Loki, please don't. You know I care about what you want—"

"—as if it makes a difference."

Steve makes himself stop and take a breath, counting backwards from one hundred. Which doesn't work as well as it used to if only because he's had a lot of practice.

"Is this a bad day?"

Loki doesn't say anything, looking away.

"Because we both knew I was going to tell them. That that wasn't an option, just when I would tell them. I asked you because I wanted you to be aware that I was doing so, and what I was going to tell them. They only know I'm seeing someone, and we both know they won't pry. You _said_ you were alright with that. Were you? Are you?"

"A little late now."

Steve sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"Do you want to get a place together or not? I'd like to—like you said, it'd be convenient, and we'd probably get to spend more time together and less time traveling back and forth."

"I suppose."

"Despite what you seem to think, I didn't tell them I like men to threaten your sense of security and make you miserable," Steve says, a touch more bitterly than he intends. It's a mistake; Loki's face goes blank, jaw tightening and eyes going heavy-lidded.

"I'm sorry," Steve says.

Loki doesn't say anything at first, and Steve keeps his mouth shut before he can make it worse.

"I would," Loki finally allows, "prefer to find somewhere together."

XXXXXX

"I _am_ sorry," Loki murmurs that night, "for antagonizing you."

Steve stirs from the soft half-doze he was in, pulling Loki closer and pressing a kiss to his neck.

"Get some rest, love. We can talk about it later."

XXXXXX

Steve likes Max immediately. He's well-dressed, friendly, polite, willing to slow down to answer Steve's questions, and conveys a great deal of confidence. Pepper actually comes with Steve to the first meeting to help make sure everything goes smoothly (according to her).

"I like Brooklyn," Steve explains, "but he mentioned something about Manhattan. He enjoys going to see shows—especially orchestra. He likes parks and the 52nd street market, and he doesn't like driving, so something near the subway. Oh, and he composes; he'd want to be able to do that at home too." Steve tries to remember if there was anything else Loki had specified.

"Do you two have a price range?" Max asks.

"Same as my assistant," Pepper says without looking up from her tablet.

"Pepper," Steve says, half-horrified—he can certainly afford an apartment; it's not like he's doing too much else with his money.

"Consider it a birthday gift from Tony."

Steve starts to object, and then decides he probably shouldn't when Pepper looks up.

"Thank you," he says instead.

Pepper grins, then looks over to Max.

"I already know several places that might work," Max says with a smile.

XXXXXX

Loki does not like Max immediately. In fact, Steve might go so far as to suggest that Loki hates Max on sight.

"Loki, you can't insult _him_ because you didn't like the places we were shown," Steve says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

"I don't see why not," Loki sniffs. "He is meant to find a place for us to live, and he's doing a terrible job of it."

"Considering how little he had to go on, I think he did pretty alright."

Loki stops walking to study Steve, forcing Steve to stop too.

"What is it?" Steve says.

"Nothing," Loki says, breezing past Steve.

"Just stop insulting _him_ , okay?"

XXXXXX

Loki does stop suggesting that Max is absolutely incompetent and a failure as a person for not being able to read Loki’s mind. At least to Max's face. His lists of faults with the different places they’re shown just... grows.

(Truth to tell, Steve has liked quite a few of them so far.)

Max, for his part, bears it with a good attitude and, if not a smile, then at least an attempt at one. Steve likes that, just like he likes how Max just says it gives him more to work with.

At least Loki’s list are starting to get smaller.

XXXXXX

"I don't like it," Loki announces after Max has finished showing them place number twenty-seven. (Steve knows. He's been counting.)

"Why?" Steve asks; Max might not be allowed to sound exasperated, but Steve has nothing stopping him other than Loki being sour later.

(Honestly, Steve is starting to feel pretty bad for Max—how was Steve meant to know Loki was going to be so picky?)

"Too little light. The kitchen is hardly big enough. It feels too cramped." Loki is already clearly disinterested in the place and ready to move on.

"Loki—"

"This is meant to be a _home_ ," Loki snaps, turning on his heel to look at Steve. He looks... tired, and Steve remembers that Loki has a rather large performance coming up; important, too. This is likely one of the last things he'd like to be doing with his spare time.

"Okay," Steve says. "Just. Okay. We'll keep looking."

(The list is getting smaller. Steve dares think that means they might be close.)

XXXXXX

”Go ahead,” Steve says, “you’ll be late otherwise.”

Loki eyes shift from Steve to Max and back.

”I’ll see you at dinner,” Steve promises, leaning forward and kissing Loki; Loki stiffens for a moment before relaxing. Loki smiles slightly as he pulls away, little more than a faint curve but still enough to ease his features and soften his eyes.

”Very well,” Loki says. “Eight.”

”I know.” Steve waits a few minutes for Loki to get out of earshot before he addresses Max.

”I just wanted to apologize about all this. I didn’t realize he was going to be so exacting.”

Max flashes a quick grin, even though he looks exhausted.

”Not a problem. I owed Pepper anyway.”

”What did she do? Hide a body for you?” Steve asks despite himself. Considering Loki’s behaviour, he’d think it had to have been something drastic.

”No, no, not that,” Max says with a laugh.

”If you say so.”

”He’s not even near the worst I’ve ever dealt with,” Max says, as if that’s meant to be reassuring. It probably is. Steve’s more alarmed there are people worse than Loki. “Trust me. Saturday?”

”Barring any emergencies, Saturday,” Steve agrees.

 

XXXXXX

It’s actually Thursday.

”Look, I know it’s last minute, and I apologize, but you two absolutely need to see this place,” Max tells Steve. So Steve calls Loki, who agrees a bit sourly to the unplanned interruption.

”He’s going to be ir—” Steve starts, then stops as he sees Loki. Loki’s eyes narrow, dark Pthalo Green they only get when he’s in a terrible mood.

”Am I interrupting something?” Loki asks curtly.

The heat, Steve thinks. It’s late summer, which Loki detests anyway, and mid-afternoon Thursday, so he had probably been seeing Janelle, or at least en route, which would only add to his temper.

”No,” Max says brightly.

”This had best be good,” Loki says sharply and Steve wants to put his head in his hands, because for all Loki is better, sometimes he’s decidedly _not_.

”Absolutely.”

Max tells them about the building as they go—only three blocks from Central Park, less than that from the subway, soundproofing and pets, a rooftop garden. He’s still talking about it when he lets them into the apartment that they needed to see right away.

Steve absolutely means to keep paying attention.

There’s so much _light_. The main room bounces with it, lines to draw the eye and trick the mind into thinking the space bigger than it is. Steve notes that Loki’s the one acknowledging Max, but mostly he’s taking in the apartment. The kitchen has granite countertops and slate tile that he can already imagine pleasantly cool against the feet—not the biggest one they’ve seen, but not small either, and part of the counter extends out, so he can see into the main room (a peninsula, Loki would call it). Two bedrooms on opposite sides of the apartment, and he can picture Loki’s instruments in the smaller of the two, the one with better light, and how the sound would drift throughout the day.

He wanders back eventually to where Loki is still listening to Max. Loki doesn’t seem to have moved, odd considering the way he’d all but prowled through the other places.

Loki glances over at Steve, and though it’s a bit forced at the edges, he smiles.

”I like it,” Loki announces as Steve comes over.

Steve and Max look at him.

”Was I unclear? Am I suddenly speaking in tongues?”

”You haven’t even looked at this place,” Steve says first, because Max really shouldn’t.

”And?”

Steve stares at Loki.

”Oh,” Max says. “Well that would have made things much easier.”

"I like this one _specifically_."

Max and Steve share a look.

”We will take it,” Loki adds. “Won’t we?” The last directed at Steve, closest to soft Loki's been today.

”Yeah,” Steve says, glancing around the front room again and smiling. “Yeah we will.”

 

XXXXXX

Steve waits until Loki's mostly asleep. He knows he shouldn't; he should wait the few weeks it will take for Loki to admit the actual reason.

(It's not like Loki doesn't pull the same stunt with apologies.)

"Why that one?"

Loki rolls away, tugging the sheet over his head.

"Loki," Steve says, lips tracing along the shell of Loki's ear, sliding closer and running a hand along Loki's spine.

"Just showered," Loki mumbles, rubbing his face into the pillow. "Not again tonight."

"Okay." Steve keeps stroking along Loki's spine, light touch Loki leans into as he starts to slip to sleep again. "Why that apartment though?"

"You liked it best."

It's hardly a few minutes later Loki is asleep, half-curled around his pillow, a foot-dangling off the side of the bed. Steve watches for a little while before finally shaking his head and settling down to get some sleep himself.


	25. Rhythms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _actually_ Poetry Loki's birthday today.
> 
> Naturally I can't just let that pass by! 
> 
> Warnings: food porn, non-explicit bathtub sex
> 
> Again, thank you all for sticking and being so patient on this~

Living together is a dance he doesn’t know the steps to, blind stumble in the dark over what seems polished marble but is in truth more like granite sunk beneath the sea, littered with holes and surface gone uneven with the weathering of time and the waves.

To think he had thought this would hardly be a change.

The rhythms he has grown familiar with are irrevocably altered by Steve’s presence and (if he is fair, which does not often feel like he should be), Steve’s rhythms are no doubt altered by Loki’s.

(Amusing, that he turns to music to find a way to describe this confusion when he speaks with Lethe, but unsurprising.)

“He moves things. Eternally moving things it feels like,” he explains to her irritably over ice cream, the weather turgidly torrid and the sound of insects a high-pitched whine. Grating. It feels as if something will _happen_ , everything stepping with quickened pace that slows without warning, sound of traffic and people and distant unending buzzing insect drone twisting together into a war beat that makes him itch to tear things apart.

(That may simply be stress.)

(Perhaps both.)

“Have you told him?” Lethe asks. A beat-pause-rest. “It’s hot.”

“God awfully,” he agrees, because the sweltered air makes everything feel like syrup and the obvious become revelation. “No.”

“You should tell him,” Lethe says, and then sighs relief as she takes another spoonful of ice cream from the carton they are sharing in the park, a pleased hum that carries on the thick air and away.

“Probably,” Loki says only when the hum no longer echoes in his head, allowing her sounds to finish. “Probably.” He blinks lazily at the heat shimmer. “Why did we come out again?”

“No idea. Ice cream.”

Loki studies the slowly melting carton and decides he doesn’t feel so unlike it right now.

“We should go swimming,” Lethe says. “Can you swim?”

“No idea,” Loki says. The idea of water is pleasing, a soothing spill of _cool_ against the earth’s fever. “Let’s.”

Later, later, he comes back to find things _moved_ and instead of snapping, he calmly moves them back as he wanders to the studio, because as much as he wishes he could simply lay upon the cool tile in the kitchen and laze, there _is_ work yet to be done.

XXXXXX

Steve’s pulse is, at the least, steady (and this must be part of what drives him insane, because his own feels like a tide, cyclical but never the same twice, moving from manic to crashing without the benefit of a time frame or even _warning_ , sometimes spanning days and sometimes barely minutes).

(So much for medication _fixing_ this, but then, he supposes, Janelle never said that, only said it another way to cope--perhaps it is not semantics after all.)

He could very nearly set a clock to Steve, and he is surprised how much this _infuriates_ him, how much he is used to and has depended upon not having a dedicated time sense, only the drift of one thing to another. It is difficult to lose himself in work when he can tell, by sound of Steve’s existing alone, the time.

(Unfair of him. He knows Steve is just as disoriented by the introduction to Loki’s own scarcely strung schedule--black spills of ink spilled upon a paper windingly joined by a child’s unsteady line.)

Not to mention that Steve’s pulse is _movement_ , kinetic and raw and endless activity; Loki had not realized how still and... not idle, no, but how _inward_ his own world had become--the physics of his life is bound more to journey and performance, but on the whole he _is_ quite still, nearly placid (if one only considers the physical and not the mental) and the sound of Steve continues to startle him perpetually. It has not (yet) become the idle background noise of the city he can (mostly) tune out.

XXXXXX

“Have you told him yet?” Lethe asks.

(Obnoxious.)

(He is being unkind, only irate and tense and today summer sound sounds a _shriek_ ; he wants to tear down _everything_ , rend the ties that bind and leave it all to fall to ruin in the suffocating blaze.)

“No,” Loki says.

“Mmm,” and Loki knows all the words that are _meant_ to be in that hum, couched in its mellifluous melodies.

Loki does not deign to respond.

(Truth: he does not _want_ to respond, and there are excuses enough not to--Lethe is drawing him because Loki could not stand to be in his studio a moment longer and she will rarely turn down a chance at life drawing if it fits within her schedule. _Talking_ is hardly conducive to art-making; that at least transfers between their crafts.)

He feels a little calmer as he closes his eyes, basking in the coolness of her apartment’s air on his skin, required not to talk or explain or _anything_ , only to be still and quiet and steady.

(He can do that, for periods of time, short as they may be--be steady.)

“If you don’t tell him,” Lethe begins, minutes or hours later (Loki has no idea and finds that he does not care, very _near_ contentment).

“Then he won’t know,” Loki finishes, and heaves a sigh as he sits up. “Yes, yes, I am aware.”

Lethe nods, rubbing with a cloth at some of the ink that has stained her fingertips as she worked.

“Do you want ice cream?”

“Only if we don’t have to go outside. I don’t know if you’ve stepped out today, but it’s simply beastly,” Loki says, sliding into the pajama pants he has long since decided to simply leave here--easier than trying to remember them.

“Orange sherbert or salted caramel?”

Loki stretches as he stands considers.

(A choice. An _easy_ choice, with no repercussions, nothing riding on it--not like the choice to speak or not to Steve.)

“Salted caramel,” Loki says, because he loves the strange melding of brine and snow, meeting of summer and winter in a spoon (such an _interesting_ flavour, and one he never tasted on Asgard, or anywhere else in truth. It is as if the shortness of their lives means _being_ human is finding a way to encounter everything in every kaleidoscopic combination imaginable as rapidly as possible, relentless dizzying experience after dizzying experience.)

(It is what he likes best, and least, about what he is now.)

XXXXXX 

_Talking_ to Steve is not difficult.

(Correction, not as difficult as it once _was_.)

Because as much as he might like to accuse Steve not actually taking his thoughts and opinions into consideration, the simple matter is Steve does at the very least _try_ (which is more than he can say of most the people he knew (prior) before even mentioning that he feels he _can_ tell Steve these things).

Of course, the establishment of some simple guidelines has helped and while they _do_ still argue on occasion (and viciously enough it leaves him shaking and sick and _hateful_ ), it is less, and he has yet to entirely forget spans of time and find himself shaking and freezing on a mountain side again.

(Granted it is so miserably _hot_ that he suspects he would simply curl into a puddle and _melt_ if he tried. Frostbite would be a welcome reprieve to _this_.)

He is in the midst of fingering through a rather complicated passage he has yet to commit to memory ( _four weeks_ , what is he doing? Incompetent, clearly, and what was he thinking that he could do this for a living, constantly?)--not playing, simply running through the motions, when Steve knocks at the still parted door (Loki’s fault, he usually keeps it closed if he does not wish to be interrupted) and Loki strangles a scream as his mind is ripped from memorization and scattered notes in the unpleasant din of his head.

(Steve, Steve who loves to share meal, Steve who likes to see if Loki wants anything, always pleasant, always sweet, his Steve, and as much as Loki (attempts to) appreciates it, the regular, dependable (interruption) invitation is _maddening_.)

“No,” Loki says before Steve can ask. “No, I don’t want lunch or dinner or whatever time or meal it is, I want to _work_.”

(Yet he still feels disoriented, music muscle memory has yet to learn forsaken in the notes knocked out of order by Steve’s approach. Cracked clean from side to side, ruined.)

“Loki, it’s dinner--when’s the last time you ate?” Steve asks; cautious, not quite stepping in.

“This won’t learn itself,” Loki says instead of ( _leave me alone, stop bothering me, I can care for myself, I am not some project you need tend, why did we do this_ ) anything else.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Steve says.

Loki looks away and sets the violin down; each movement precise, quick, and just beneath the surface hums _break-tear-destroy_ , enough his fingers clench as he stands.

“I want you,” Loki says, voice even (and yet he can feel _loathing_ tremble beneath, shimmering like heat off pavement and so near the surface he does not yet know how to hide it), “to leave me _alone_.”

“Alright,” Steve says.

“I’m going out for a walk since I can’t even _think_ here.”

He waits for Steve to say something, to plead, but Steve only nods, jaw tensing; there is something infuriating in this, that even now Steve is good, _better_ , that Steve can interrupt and still _Loki_ feels as if he is the one who has wronged _Steve_ , not the other way around. That Steve’s solidity is _more_ , overpowering Loki’s rhythms with his own marching cadence.

“Okay,” Steve says, and Loki cannot help the strangled, irritated noise that catches in the back of his throat

(wants Steve to lash back)

and pushes past him, grabbing his keys before heading down and out to the street.

It _is_ late; he did not realize how--the sun is already swung low, the streets a little emptier. The heat is a little less stifling than it was the day before, but he would not call it cool. Low pitched _whine_ aches in his head, grating along his nerves as soon as he steps outside and hardly better than Steve’s interruption. It is yet hot enough that he has barely managed a block and he feels slowed, muggy, his energy sapped--it is too much effort to lash out now, near too hot to move or think or even _sleep_.

(He cannot keep doing this, he thinks, cannot keep circling and pushing down and back, another exhaustion to add to his list.)

It is not long before he returns through the endless twilight of summer sunset, taking a deep lungful of air in the coolness of their apartment building once more.

(A nice building, far nicer than he would like, but Steve is so very _visual_ ; of course he would need lines and light to match.)

He pauses as he comes in, listening. The light in the kitchen is off; food out, covered, and it occurs to him he _hasn’t_ eaten since this morning. It sounds as if Steve is in the bedroom--reading, perhaps, or sketching, something with paper, soft sounds--and so he browses through what is out on the peninsula separating kitchen and living area while he (stalls) debates what to say to Steve.

Between the air conditioning and the food, he feels very nearly _well_. Fried mushrooms, some sort of  creamy sauce (Steve would tell him if he asked, but he doesn’t want to). There’s some spice he can’t place (not surprising) in it and it teases the palate, a tiny bite to sharpen the rest. He savours the taste on his tongue, relishes the crisp crunch next to the pleasant resistance of the mushroom and its juices flooding his mouth, licking the remnants off his fingers as he looks through the rest of the food.

He didn’t even realize he was so hungry, nearly ravenous, and he _should_ simply get a plate and sit and eat properly, but the tile is cool on his bare feet and there is something deliciously delectable in standing at the counter, eating with his fingers and flexing toes against the tile, eyes half-closed and basking in the chill.

(The first time he has found this place to sound like _home_.)

“I am sorry,” he says without looking over as Steve comes into the room.

Steve pauses, then rests his forearms on the other side of the peninsula. Loki looks at him, and for a moment catches a glimpse of... _adoration_ on Steve’s face, pleasure taken in seeing Loki at ease. It makes Loki disoriented, fills him with affection and confusion (to have someone look at him that way), and an high flush stain his cheeks before he can strangle it (but at least he can blame it on the heat).

“It’s okay,” Steve says.

“I love you,” Loki says, the first words that straggle back to his tongue.

“I love you,” Steve replies with a smile, eyes lighting up and stunning as a crystal clear sky.

(He wants, more than anything at all, to hold this moment, to not touch on the... less than good, to simply encapsulate these precious seconds, keep them as timeless and endless as the heat in the sultry nights, as blazing as the sunlight that makes him feel he might never know chill again. To stay breathless, lungs as emptied of air by this moment as they are when stepping from inside cold to outside scorch--this, _this_ is what summer should be, here and now, and it makes _sense_ , all those dull summer romances he has read and seen and not understood because none of them have ever managed to convey _this_.)

Loki exhales, allowing the moment to go.

“We should talk,” he says.

Steve nods and sits at one of the bar stools, reaching over to tug the bowl of sugar snaps closer to himself, taking one.

“We should,” Steve agrees. He offers one of the blanched pea pods to Loki, and Loki leans forward unthinking, eating it from his hand, licking the sweet butter from his lips as he appreciates the succulent and refreshing _green_ on his tongue.

“I cannot have you interrupting me always,” Loki admits. “For meals, or... what have you. It ruins my focus.”

Steve nods, and takes a mushroom Loki offers him in turn, licking juice from Loki’s fingers.

(Simple simple acts, and Loki marvels how... _normal_ they make all this seem. As if there is nothing at all to these requests, this sorting out of boundaries.)

“I can change that,” Steve says. “But I want you to eat, too, and I do like eating with you.”

Loki nods.

“Is there anything that I do...?” Loki asks.

“You leave the lights on,” Steve says, looking amused. “All the time.”

Loki blinks; he hasn’t noticed.

“I can try not.”

Steve nods.

“How about,” Steve says, feeding him another sugar snap pod, Loki carefully grazing his teeth against Steve’s thumb as he takes the offering, “I don’t bother you at lunch, but I do at dinner? And you have to eat breakfast.”

“You knock at dinner,” Loki says, “so I can finish.”

“Thirty minute warning.”

“Lightly.”

“Deal,” Steve says, smiling. “Hold still a minute, you’ve got something on your face,” and then he kisses Loki, sensual slick slide; Loki leans into it, eyes closing, hand instinctively reaching for Steve at the tease of Steve’s teeth on his lower lip.

“Now?” Loki says breathless when they part.

“Should probably make sure nothing anywhere else,” Steve says.

“Absolutely.” Loki pauses, calculating. “Have we investigated the bathroom properly?”

“Nope.”

“We should change that.”

Steve grins.

For all the other space, the bathtub is _not_ nearly so big as the light of the apartment would like them to think, and Loki knows he will have a few bruises beyond the temporary history drawn by Steve’s hands and mouth.

All the same, he would not trade laying against Steve in the rapidly cooling water for all the realms, languidly satisfied and caught between semi-arousal and doze, hands laced together and Steve trailing kisses on the side of his neck.

"We should probably clean up," Steve says minutes or hours later (and who is there to keep track), amused and disappointed at once.

"Mmm."

"Come on, get up."

"No," Loki says.

"I don't want to hear you complain come morning," Steve warns, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Oh, _fine_ ," Loki says, hauling himself up and purposefully splashing water over the side of the tub (even if it will bother him more than Steve, it is the principle of the thing).

Steve laughs, following him up, and if Loki collects a few more bruises, shower water slick and slippery and adding an oh so delightful friction as they press against each other, well, Loki won't complain (and even less so when Steve pushes him onto the edge of the bed and sinks between his thighs).

XXXXXX

"I take it you talked to Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"I haven't heard you complain about him moving things," Lethe says with a laugh.

"Oh," Loki says, realizing that he _hasn't_.

In truth, he cannot pinpoint the moment he started to simply take things being moved slightly out place in stride, or how _now_ the sound of home is so inextricably tied to what he has taken to fondly calling Steve’s kinaesthesia--so much so that Steve's absence feels (almost) as dysphoric as staring in the mirror when his mood runs foul and seeing what he is _not_.

(How home is Steve, and Steve is home, slid beneath his skin and into the endless rhythms of his life, altering the pulse-beat of the music in his head so carefully he had not noticed until now.)

“I suppose,” Loki says, “I simply adjusted.”


	26. Mornin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter and next are really just an excuse for me to have a little smut before getting on with the Plot. 
> 
> I'm allowed to do that right? I mean, I guess this whole premise is to do whatever and tell these little stories, so that's a thing. Anyway. 
> 
> Actual warnings! I am aware that not everyone goes for sleepy wake up stuff, especially without explicit consent. As such, this chapter gets a **dubious consent** warning. It's not rough, or angry, or any of that, and Loki would say no if he meant it, but I figure between him being asleep when Steve starts and the way sleep meds tend to fog the mind when first waking, we needed that warning.

Steve is not really surprised Loki started two prescriptions during the time apart. He does accept that Loki is a bit grumpy at mentioning it (revealing a potential weakness), still silently resentful that Steve basically bullied him into going to therapy in the first place, but Steve doesn’t mind. That Loki told him at all is sign of how much has changed between them, that they might be able to really make this work (even if he has to remind himself near daily to ask, to not assume, to listen).

Eventually, Loki stops silently bristling when mentioning therapy; Steve does not miss it’s right about the same time they finally find a place to move in together.

At first, Steve doesn’t notice Loki even has issues sleeping, because the first few weeks in the new place he can’t sleep well either. After that he doesn’t think much of it because there’s an important recital coming up and Loki is constantly working and tearing his hair out about _what if it isn’t any good_ and _this is going to end in ruin._ By the time that’s over it’s nearly the end of summer and Loki has in the meantime authorized Steve to pick up the prescriptions (Loki _says_ it’s to save time (his), but he doesn’t make Steve stop once that’s over).

With the recital over and nothing else coming up, Loki sleeps in near-comatose exhaustion for a few nights (and most of a day). _Then_ they make up for all the lost time and end up needing to clean the sheets (and more besides) near daily for a while.

Things settle back into something a little closer to normalcy (what’s normalcy for them, or as close as they’ve found). Steve sometimes wakes in the middle of the night to find Loki out of bed as often as he is in it, and even though Steve gets up long before nearly everyone else he knows—five am sharp—Loki is often already up and moving quietly about their apartment. Occasionally he finds Loki dozing on the couch, a book on his chest, startling awake as Steve comes in and sharp (Jadeite) eyes clearing quickly.

“Have you told Janelle you have trouble sleeping?” he asks one morning, after his morning jog.

“You said that I do not have to tell you what I’ve talked to Janelle about,” Loki says sharply—it’s not directed at Steve though, or not for the reason one would think (it’s because Loki has been steadily managing to make pancakes without burning them provided he is not distracted and Steve asking questions while he cooks is the height of distraction)(really, Loki’s been managing to make more things more often, though he still has to _focus_ and takes little pleasure out of the activity because of it).

“You should talk to her,” Steve says, after breakfast.

“Perhaps,” Loki says, adorably imperious, and Steve huffs a laugh before clearing the table.

A few weeks later, Steve arrives at the pharmacy and the pharmacist lets him know that, actually, Mr. Friggson was by to pick up his medication earlier. Steve blinks but says thank you and heads home.

That night, Loki sleeps the whole way through, then wakes at six. Steve’s just glad he’s home for it—Loki wakes with an incoherent yell, panics, and kicks at the sheets twisted around his legs; Steve only just manages to catch Loki when he rolls and falls off the bed.

The same thing happens the next three mornings (well, not quite; the second time, Steve is actually still in bed when Loki’s mind manages to claw itself to awareness again and Loki doesn’t quite panic, just looks disoriented before curling up under Steve’s arm and falling into a light doze).

Then Loki is up before Steve again and rarely in bed when Steve wakes in the middle of the night.

Steve very discreetly takes a look and finds Loki’s removed the new medication from his rather exactingly organized pill case.

“I don’t like it,” Loki says, voice flat and dangerous, when Steve asks.

“You didn’t like the others either.”

“That was different.”

“Or the idea of therapy.”

“ _Different_ ,” Loki insists, nearly a snarl.

“You need rest. Everyone needs rest. _Everything_ needs it; you remember that Radio Lab thing we listened to don’t you?” Steve says instead, trying a different tact, because he knows Loki is more likely (or rather, more willing) to be swayed by fact than emotional appeal. Loki’s eyes narrow and Steve lets it drop.

But he keeps thinking about it. Sleep is actually something people need, even if Loki thinks not, and while he’s okay with Loki making his own choices (even if sometimes he has to bite his tongue), this seems important enough to try and sway him on.

“Will you try it for a few more days? How about I wake you up when I get up?” he asks after getting back from a team exercise.

Loki frowns at Steve, ink smudged by his mouth—he must have been composing. Steve is getting the Not Approve look, so he puts on his most winning smile, the nearly patented puppy dog eyes that make even Clint crumble, and adds, knowing it’s a low move and not caring (much), “I sleep better when you’re in bed.”

And _there_ , Loki’s brow furrowing and the Not Approve look intensifies, but Loki mutters something about how he’ll think about it and Steve knows he’s won. For a night, at least.

Loki does not like being awakened; he panics and snarls and lashes out.

“That was _worse_ ,” Loki tells him, scowling and mouth a thin thin line, while he gently (despite the anger on his features) dabs at Steve’s temple from where Loki’s ring cut the flesh. Steve doesn’t need Loki to do so, but he lets him because he knows it will make Loki feel better about it.

“Maybe. You should still take it.”

Loki doesn’t say anything to that, just scowling more.

“One more week. Promise. I’ll figure out a way to keep you from trying to brain me.” Steve grabs his hand, presses a kiss to the band, and looks up at Loki with the sweetest smile he has.

Loki’s expression doesn’t change.

Steve keeps waking him up. He’s more careful about making sure Loki doesn’t manage to hit him like the first time. Loki keeps taking the new medication after the week is up—Steve knows it’s because he wants Loki to (even if he wishes it was because Loki wants the sleep).

It’s shameful how long it takes Steve to hit on the idea.

Incredibly shameful, once one takes into account how very much they both like sex and how much Loki enjoys trying new things. In Steve’s defense, he is still getting used to waking up to find Loki next to him—at least next to him when the previous night didn’t involve copious amounts of the two of them going at it like they’re both teenagers.

(Steve can’t help that he can’t keep his hands off Loki—he loves Loki, which is pretty strongly in the other man’s favour, and even if Loki’s drive is all quickness and reigniting fire, it doesn’t make him any less enthusiastic; his stamina is just a slightly different sort than Steve’s own. It’s rarely ever an issue, except maybe when Steve bottoms, which can be entirely maddening for Steve if he’s honest, closer to teasing than any of Loki’s actual teasing.

Steve’s always impressed by the fact that he ends up feeling just as sated as Loki looks afterwards, which isn’t something he ever expected in a partner since the serum.)

(Besides, Loki is still all lines that Steve could draw forever, and that’s only emphasized more in bed against dark sheets that Steve refuses to let Loki change out for lighter ones.)

(It is distinctly shallow to think that but Steve’s pretty okay with it, because he knows Loki thinks the same things about him sometimes)

Steve always wakes very suddenly, body on auto-pilot before he’s even started to think. Military habits drilled in and he doesn’t mind most the time.

He wakes that morning in mid-dream and sits half up, turning off the vibrating phone (actual sound will drag Loki out violently from wherever he’s dreaming; Steve had to replace his phone that morning. Tony had been impressed by the mangled thing Steve presented him). He rubs a hand through his hair and looks down at Loki, face slack and half-buried in the pillow. A little light is filtering through the blinds, making Loki’s skin glow. Steve traces his fingers along his favourite curve, where neck joins shoulder. Loki’s features twitch.

He’s still drowsy and he has nowhere else to be today and the morning jog can always wait. He leans down and kisses the curve; Loki tastes of anise and cinnamon and something so distinctly _Loki_ that he decides, in his half-awake state, to keep kissing along the line of Loki’s throat, settling himself back down behind Loki so he is more comfortable. One hand settles on Loki’s hip and he rubs half-crescents in the pajama fabric.

Loki stirs, breath hitching slightly, and Steve pauses for a moment.

(Perhaps his favourite thing, beyond Loki’s enthusiasm, is how _responsive_ Loki is.)(Though his favourite thing is how Loki’s shields fall away in the middle of things; Steve does not limit himself to only _one_ favourite thing with Loki.)

The hand at Loki’s hip slides down, fingertips running underneath the edge of Loki’s pajama pants. Steve drags his teeth into the skin behind Loki’s ear, then nibbles on the earlobe. He kisses his way along the soft shell of Loki’s ear, the hand at Loki’s waist slipping down and tracing along the inside of Loki’s hip. Loki’s lashes flutter, a sudden exhale escaping his lips, pressing back against Steve and hips twitching slightly; Steve smiles.

He goes slowly, kisses interspersed with nibbles, dragging his fingertips into Loki’s skin, and listens to how Loki wakes up. Steve eases the pajama bottoms lower and runs his fingertips along Loki’s half-hard erection; another sleep moan and Loki twitches into the touch, (Prussian Green) eyes slipping open a sliver but still drowsed with dream. Steve pauses only long enough to grab the lube out of the bed stand (never has he been so grateful for Loki’s tendency to drift towards the edge of the bed as he sleeps).

One-handed he gets some of the lube onto his fingers, tosses the bottle off the edge of the bed, and wraps his hand around Loki’s cock. Loki half-whines (that particular pitch that _still_ drives Steve half-mad no matter how much he hears it), bucking instinctively into Steve’s hand and hardening the rest of the way; Steve leans up and shifts so that he can see Loki’s face better, watches as Loki’s eyes open, pupils wide and glassy, lips parted and breath uneven.

 _Yes_ Steve thinks, glimpsing a bit of fire, desire, _love_.

Loki’s hands curl, one twisting into the pillow, other grasping tight to the Steve’s wrist and nails digging in. He groans, breath heavier, and Steve thumbs the head of Loki’s cock, slipping in lube and pre-cum, drawing out a long wire-tense shudder. Loki is close, knife-edge close.

“Steve,” Loki whispers, voice rough and choked.

Steve bites down on that one particular spot of Loki’s neck that he knows is more sensitive than the rest at the same time he twists his hand just so; Loki cries out, back arching and coming into Steve’s hand, bloody lines left on Steve’s forearm.

“Mornin,” Steve says with a chuckle, wiping his hand on the bed sheets.

“Mmm,” Loki hums, languid against Steve’s chest once more.

“Told you I would figure something out,” Steve adds, pressing a kiss into the blooming bruise on Loki’s neck. “What do you think?”

Loki doesn’t say anything and Steve almost thinks he’s dozed off.

“Acceptable,” Loki sniffs with a poor attempt to hide his smile, then slips from Steve’s grasp and out of bed, disappearing. A few moments later Steve hears rummaging in the kitchen and the familiar click of the coffee maker.


	27. Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** : Body dysmorphia, alcohol, explicit sex

The first night the heat breaks, Loki calls Olek. A celebration (for performance gone well, for the new apartment, for unending summer beginning to fade) for the simple _joy_ of it.

XXXXXX

"Yes, yes, he is _fine_ , I am taking perfectly good care of him, hey, Luke, Luke, no you've h—"

Loki snags the phone from Olek as Olek reaches to take his drink, cradling the phone to his ear and slipping out of Olek's reach.

" _Steve_ ," he purrs ( _not_ slurs), and wishes Steve were here—to feel, sense, _taste_.

"Loki?" Steve sounds vaguely amused, note of A-minor worry threaded beneath. "Did you steal Olek's phone?"

"Borrowed. Perhaps."

" _Loki_ ," but the D-flat major of Steve's smile is beneath the reproach, notes that crawl onto his skin and he itches to touch.

"I want to see you," Loki says, leaning against a wall.

"Good thing you live here then, isn't it?"

"Ah, Luke, there you are!" Olek's hand settles on his shoulder, firm and guiding him to... somewhere. Away from where they are.

Reluctantly, he relinquishes the phone back to Olek's care, leaning against him and half-listening to the conversation. Olek wraps an arm around his waist to support him when he stagger-sway-steps; aall Loki can think is how it is not Steve's.

"I want to go _home_ ," Loki declares abruptly.

(Home—where Steve is, to grasp and to _feel_ , to slip skin over skin, lick and taste and map flesh with mouth and fingertips. To ground himself with the tactile for a while.)

Olek laughs.

"Good, because you have had far too much to drink. You would think I would have learned your limits by now."

They stumble outside ( _Olek_ stumbles)(even if it is because _Loki_ is trying to find his feet once more—they feel distant, disconnected, much like him, all of him (this is not _his_ body, he is not this—

"Luke.”

Loki blinks up at Olek, head in his lap, Olek's hands soothing ( _grounding_ ) against his scalp. Everything feels as if they are moving though they are still, limbs coltish and sprawled half in the seat and half on Olek. A cab.

"We are nearly back, Luke, all is well."

(Olek's hands are not Steve's, Steve's Loki has near memorized, but they tug his spirit back to his body for now.)

"'M fine," Loki mutters, though glee has slithered away he knows not where.

He makes himself listen to Olek regaling the driver with tales. It makes him smile a little, the absurdity of Olek's stories, soothing and lulling him to doze.

XXXXXX

"He has gone melancholy," Olek says to Steve as soon as Steve opens the door.

"I have not," Loki protests.

"Dreadfully sorry."

As if Loki is some dog brought home covered in mud. Infuriating.

"Also very affectionate."

Loki snarls, shoving away from Olek, fully intending to close the door in his face.

It does not work quite as planned.

"Why," he demands (stutter-buzz- _fury_ ), "does this infernal realm _tilt_ so?"

Steve and Olek share a glance, then Olek lets go of Loki and only Steve has a hand supporting him.

"Good luck!" Olek says cheerfully.

Loki opens his mouth to protest (why should _anyone_ need luck when dealing with him, he is fully grown, entirely capable of taking care of himself, it is _Thor_ people need luck to handle—

"Loki," Steve says, small smile on his face, "come inside," and a gentle tug at his elbow.

XXXXXX

"You are very drunk."

The irritated noise Loki makes is decidedly muffled by the fact his face is pressed to Steve's chest, nose rubbing along Steve’s lines. He is near entire tangled against Steve, legs twined together, one hand gripping Steve's bunched up shirt and other pressed flat to Steve's spine. Solid—he exists where they touch, rest of him blurred into nothingness, Steve the strokes that define where he begins.

(Vaguely, he is aware he is slowly grinding against Steve, a swirl of desire-craving-arousal. Not need (not yet), but _want_ , oh how he _wants_.)

"Hardly," Loki says.

"What's it like?"

His mind trips over the question.

"To be drunk," Steve says. "I can't—"

"I am not drunk," Loki insists. Then, "Slippery. As if I don't quite exist, too heavy and too light."

Another pause, and he runs the side of now bare feet against Steve's calf.

"I can't feel my feet. Not well. It is..."

"It sounds distressing."

"...pleasant. Sometimes."

Loki (whines) protests as Steve pulls away and sits up, losing touch that he clings to for definition and feeling as if _falling_.

(eternal, nightmarish _fall_ , fallen so long that he cannot even _tell_ anymore, endless lack of sensation and—

"Wait," Loki says, reaching out clumsily for Steve. "Wait, don't go—"

Steve catches his hand.

(Catches _him_ , and his fingers tighten around Steve’s, near crushing.)

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve promises, clear blue eyes electric. "You're more open when you're drunk."

Loki does not know how to respond—is he not always like this? Is he not always so raw and torn and bled, so barely held together by thought and a stubborn soul that will not give up the skin? How does he fool anyone? How little does anyone know him they do not see—

"Loki," Steve says. "Loki, stay here, you're drifting again. All's well, love."

_Love_ —heat and fire, blaze, sharp steel against flint that sparks the last parts of himself, caught by the word and press of Steve's hand at his neck, thumb brushing against oh so slender pulse. He _exists_ at that word, has a heart that thuds, all of him caught alight. He reaches for Steve, does not care about the needy cry on his lips (does not care how his every sound gives him away, raw and primal beat even his tone-deaf Steve can understand). He wants (touch-taste) _sensation_ , and he grips tight to Steve, biting and licking into his (lover, _love_ ) love’s mouth, hooking a leg behind Steve's and pulling him closer, desperation and thrumming _need_.

"Touch," he prays-chants- _pleads_ , "touch, _please_ , please Steve, it is existence when you do, I— _don't stop_ —I'm not _lost_ when you do, _Steve_."

"Clothes off," Steve says, hands traveling across Loki's body, and he arches into the rough brush of Steve’s fingers, every brush of Steve's hands across baring flesh (torture: too little-too much) sharp agonizing _ecstasy_.

Steve pulls him across the bed, leaves him just at the edge, and Loki struggles to stay upright as Steve rearranges him, left leg lifted over one shoulder, Steve's face warm against his thigh, wet kisses that scald, too too much—

_Brilliance_ , evanescent effervescent _bliss_ , white shimmering beneath the skin as Steve catches his right ankle and slow drags along the tendon as his teeth graze back up the inside of his thigh. He tries, desperately, to stifle his cry, reaching out and digging a hand in Steve's hair.

Steve's hand slips down and around his foot, exquisite torture (why does this feel so _good_ , why has nothing else ever felt like _this_?).

"Let go, love," Steve murmurs, glancing up at Loki and words brushing against his erection.

No, _no_ , he _can't_ —

"I'm here," Steve promises, hands reassuring, thumb stroking the curve of his arch. "I won't let you go."

The sound torn from him is wounded at best, hurt and too high passion, _need_ as Steve licks the underside of his cock before swallowing around the head. Loki thinks he might well _shatter_ (it is falling and _landing_ , bone and heart and mind _wrecked_ ), Steve's mouth hot and wet, and Loki cannot help it, cannot stop the sob ripped from his throat, trying to get any sort of leverage, curling inward, all of his lines suddenly pressed radiant into his body and tangled tight, bound _here_

(fervent, fiery star energy, creation that fills him whole entire)

as he comes ( _exists_ ).

He collapses back onto the bed, gulping for air, feeling

(a conflagration, incandescent _, godlike_ )

alive and wholly _himself_.

"Are you okay now?"

He is crying, tears spilling down his face without his notice or leave; futilely he rubs at them with one hand even as he struggles to inhale and

(does not hate _these_ tears)

answer Steve.

He finally settles on nodding, a hiccup laugh in his throat.

Steve settles next to him on the bed, watching (but _love_ still in his sounds), always _always_ touching as he moves.

"We need to talk about how much you should and shouldn't drink," Steve says fondly, hand tracing indecipherable swirls on Loki's stomach.

Loki reaches for Steve, cupping the back of his neck to pull him close. They kiss—soft, languid, _easy_ —and _finally_ Loki's pulse eases and he can _breathe_ without struggle.

"Morning," Loki says. "When I feel worst. Easier to convince me then."

Steve laughs.

They crawl back into the bed properly, Steve spooned against his back as he falls asleep, a hand laced with his own.

XXXXXX

When he wakes, feeling vile and head muffled tempest, Steve has not let go.


	28. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> It's been a long time hasn't it? Terribly sorry. Thank you to all the new people who showed up while I was on my hiatus, sorting myself out. I'm still sorting myself out, so no promises about if we'll ever get to the halcyon double and triple update days again.
> 
> Thank you for reviews, comments, follows, kudos, all of it. I'm always so glad to see this story touch so many.
> 
> Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks, blood, injury, fires, collapsing buildings

"But could you  _imagine_?" Loki asks, laughing, stepping out into the early autumn air and waving his hands. "He can barely hold a note for a beat, and they want him to sing an entire piece!"

Lethe grins at him, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it'd at least be—"

Behind them, there is a crash, the ground shaking beneath their feet. Loki stumbles before catching himself, arm stinging slightly, and twists to look behind at the building they had just left—half of it collapsed entirely, fire beginning to lick at it, before two streaks leave in rapid succession. Familiar sights, but only at a remove until now—Doom, and Johnny Storm.

"Lethe!" Loki says, returning his attention to more immediate concerns. She is shaking, ghostly and wide-eyed, but whole.

"Luke," Lethe says. "Luke, you’re bleeding."

"I am fine," Loki tells her firmly. "We are going to go somewhere safe, before another building collapses. I need you to tell me where we need to go." Lethe stares at him, shock still in her eyes, shaking growing beneath his hands. "Lethe," he repeats, slow, firm, "I need you to tell me where there is a shelter, you know this area better than I."

(Part of him _remembers_ , remembers seeing this from above and disregarding, remembers ice-blue edged _hate_ and sick _triumph_ , remembers remembers—

"Subway," Lethe says, interrupting the flow of thoughts. She clears her throat, eyes meeting his.

"Excellent," Loki says, shoving the memory away firmly, grabbing tight to adrenaline that surges as he hears another crash—more distant. Lethe flinches at the noise, but she moves when Loki pushes, keeping one of hand on her shoulder.

A fight, brought back to the city—not by the Avengers, though he has little doubt they will be involved if they are not already. No, this is the other group of only four and _why could they not pick somewhere else to fight?_

He swallows guilt and helplessness that tries to rise up, ignores his frustration at how this city already scarred by him (that he loves, a little, its sound and rhythms) will be harmed more, and focuses on guiding Lethe, on grabbing others frozen by fear or shock and pushing them into motion before the fire spreads and the building left half-standing fully collapses, until they are in what little safety there is off of the streets.

"Where are you going?" Lethe demands, grabbing his sleeve.

"To help," Loki says ( _to make amends_ )(what he did was _right_ , it _was_ , for the good fo Asg—). He grins, sharper than intended. “I can hardly be the only one who does not know this area. You know first aid. Stay here, help.”

Lethe opens her mouth, frown drawing her brows in, then stops. If not for the almost white noise around them, he would hear her teeth click.

"Right," she says, "I do. Be careful. Come back.”

"I know. I will." He presses his hand to her shoulder, brief, before racing back above ground.

( _Pointless,_ whispers in his head. _Pointless and useless; you owe them nothing, nothing at all._ )

(Hurt and fear and triumph, _triumph_ , let the world _burn_ else another have it, destruction to drown out music and blue edged mania and _nothing happened this is a choice_ —)

He is helping another person (he has lost count, yet his head hisses _not enough_ ), his hand on their shoulder and pushing them, making them repeat back his directions, when he hears a shriek—wounded and grief, breaking through cocoon of action and memory and adrenaline to snap him to present, looking for where it came from. A little away, two people restrain a woman, trying to draw her back from the same half-collapsed and burning building Loki and Lethe had walked out of when this began.

"Matilda!" she screams, over and over, and heaviness knots in Loki’s chest.

(A child, loved, wanted; a child frightened and left, _alone_ —how many children did he— _alone_ )

"Where?" Loki demands, pushing aside one of the women trying to draw her away. He grabs hold of her shoulders, nearly shaking her. " _Where?_ ”

The woman stares at him for a moment, blinking through grief.

"The second floor," she says, "food court, where it collapsed, she got caught under, I need help, I need someone to get her, I didn’t—she’s seven, please—"

“ _Stay here_ ,” Loki orders.

Vaguely, he hears shouting before he is inside, stumbling over rubble; he rights himself, eyes raking over the area until he sees the stairs. Smoke that outside meant barely anything here is thick, and he covers his nose and mouth with a sleeve

( _heat means this is not then, then was so **cold** and_ **_empty_** )

( _he needed to burn this world to ash, distraction— _a choice_ —distraction to keep_—)

and reaches the stairs, making his way up.

Beneath his feet, the floor shakes, and he can hear twist and groan of metal paired with the roar of flame ( _heat is not then_ )( _fix this fix this fix this_ ) as he makes his way towards the worst of the damage. The floor twists and buckles, gaping holes now, and his eyes rake over the empty shells of restaurants and shops. He listens ( _music, swell, crumble shatter, groan_ — _quiet quiet quiet listen be quiet for_ _ **once**_ ), crouching low and away from the worst of the smoke gathering at what parts of the ceiling are unbroken.

"Matilda," he calls, voice muffled, syllables unfamiliar on his tongue, and prays she is conscious, that he will _hear_ her over his memory, “Matilda!”

There is nothing—nothing he can hear—and he keeps moving, until the floor is torn and angled sharply down where half the building fell, sliding into the worst of the rubble. The smoke is worst here, blocked off, and it is dark here, too dark

(he hangs tight to _heat_ and _hot_ and _smothering_ )

and he hesitates.

"Matilda!" he calls again, trying to smother his coughs as smoke fills his mouth, eyes watering.

_Not here_ , and he begins to move backwards, to more stable ground, to look elsewhere—

"Help—"

muffled, buried, and he whips back around, dropping off the edge and sliding along the steep incline. His hands dig, searching blind for her as his eyes adjust.

"Matlida," he says again, "talk to me, it’s dark so I need you to talk."

"Help," she says again, quiet, pained, "help, did mama send you, I want my mama, help, my arm hurts, it's stuck—"

Loki’s hands slide over concrete and touch a small hand, concrete pinning her forearm. Broken arm, and he blind fumbles, pulling the rubble away.

"I’ve got you, I have you—tell me, is there anywhere else you hurt, or are stuck—" he cuts off, dizzy as she twists over and grabs tight to him, broken arm cradled between them.

"Help," she says again, sobbing; Loki gathers her into his arms, supporting her mostly with his right arm.

"I am," he promises, "I am, hold tight, you can do that, can’t you? Your mama is waiting."

It is slower, making his way up the steep incline with only one arm, light-headed from smoke, sweat slicking down his spine. Much slower, but the once-floor is broken enough he has hand and foot holds plenty. He talks to Matilda as he goes, focuses on her solid weight against his side and her single-handed grip that digs into his skin through his shirt (not on _useless_ , not on _you think this fixes anything_ (there is _nothing to fix_ )), pushes aside churn of _it was for the best, I needed to, I chose it and it was **best**_ ).

"Nearly there," Loki says, resting for a moment on more solid ground, breath short and a cough near constant tickle in the the back of his throat. He hauls himself up and wraps both arms around Matilda as he picks his way across the floor to the stairs. Against him Matilda buries her face, still crying, flinching at the noises of the building crumbling further. "Nearly there, Matilda—"

The key and rhythm of the building’s collapse changes, squealing, discordant, and for a moment Loki freezes, disoriented and sick, grip tightening. It is _louder_ , a last earthen wave crumbling; Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs and breaks into a run, disregarding soothing Matilda with words in favour of simply getting _out_.

And for a moment, he hopes he might.

XXX

He hurts. Bright white hurt that pulses with his breath.

_Like landing_ and he opens his eyes, panicked, and meets only dark, dark and dark and dark, he cannot see, _landed at the bottom of existence_ and he tries to move, to push ( _away_ , _not again_ ), and white pain and white noise turn to shriek before collapsing into black once more.

XXX

Water. Water, on his face, dripping a steady tempo. Wet and damp.

_It has never rained here_  he thinks dully as he opens his eyes and is met again with blackness.

"Mister?" a soft voice says as he tries to move and instead becomes viscerally aware of every nerve ending near his ribs, in his back, of present, of _not there_.

"Ma—" he pauses, trying to breath shallowly instead of scream, trying to piece together what has happened. "Matilda. That is your name. Are you alright, Matilda?"

A hand touches his own; small. Vaguely, he realizes she must have either gotten out from underneath him, or he pushed her away from the worst.

( _What does it—_

"My arm hurts," she says. "My other one. But you resc-res-saved me. Are you an angel?"

Loki barks a laugh, then spends a few minutes just resting his forehead against an arm, nauseated and hurting, hurt hurt hurt, _landing_ —

"You’re hurt," Matilda says, and he clings to her voice before he drowns.

"Yes," he breathes out.

"Do you want me to tell you a story? My mama tells me stories when I’m hurt."

"I would like that." Distraction, words, sound outside of memory that keeps rising up with pain (sharp press of  _shatter-breaking-crash, ground, the word is ground, beneath him, hard_ ), anything at all—

"Once upon a time," Matilda starts, hand smoothing over Loki’s palm.

XXX

He wakes again to water dripping on his head, Matilda’s voice swirling around him.

"It is raining," Loki says. "My brother must have made it rain. He can do that."

"Really? Will he come get us?"

"By the nine, I hope not," Loki says unthinking, and hears a half-hiccup of a sob. "Someone will come," he promises, and hopes this is one he can keep, unlike all the rest of today. "Not him, but someone—your mother knows where we are. She sent me to save you, did she not?"

"Y-yes," Matilda says, and Loki reaches for her, touching her ankle and squeezing though the movement makes broken ribs grind and he cannot breathe. She takes his hand again, holding it tightly, and Loki squeezes back before drowning in dark again.

XXX

Hands, grabbing him, pulling him up, shifting—

_hurt, hurt, hurts, everything hurts, he is alive, and he draws in breath and he has forgotten, forgotten air breath words, he is shattered and broken and to blink is agony, and in his head is sound-sound-sound-swell-ever twisting shift, make it stop, there are hands, hands that pull him up and dig **in** —_

He screams, lashes out ( _no, nonono, please, please don't I swear—not again, **not again**_ )( _not what, **nothing happened** , he made a **choice** ,_), finds he _can_ lash out, remembers, even as everything inside of him twists and _grinds_ , vision too blurred by pain to see. Hands (grab him, pull him apart and open and lay him out) hold him down, press him together, and he tries to push back _where is his strength_ —

A prick, little more than quick sting only noted for how much less it hurts, and though he struggles, it is near like being wrapped in gauze—

( _tearing, pressing against the breaks and fault lines and watching him split open and he can see-watch—_ )

( _watch **what** nothing happened that did not happen **I made a choice** )_

—and he breathes, shaking, sweating, unable to focus, limbs gone limp, eyes roaming over blurred shapes.

"Matilda," he says, only it is a slur, _ma-thil-tha_ , and panic tries to press back against the fog settling deeper in his bones, fog so thick even pain is only a dull ache. He licks numb lips and tries again, only he gets even less out, incoherent mess of noise and his breath catches, heart stutters, there is talking, shouting—

"Mister," a voice says next to his ear, and a small hand he feels only distantly, and he sighs, eyes slipping closed. "Mister, I'm ok, mama is ok—"

"Luke! Oh my gods, Luke—"

Loki smiles (thinks he smiles) just before soft, sweet, boneless sleep takes him.

( _Warm_ and _warmth_ and _heat_ and not _cold and falling and_ —


	29. Out of his shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to this is Steve Rogers' Very Bad No-Good Day.
> 
> Fair warning: there is unfairness on both sides. Really, what a nasty stressful situation.

Steve sits for a few minutes after the debriefing, watching the others file out. His head is empty, quiet, vacated as the adrenaline wears off. He tries to call Loki, but he can't say he's surprised when all he gets is a busy signal—the whole city is like that right now, and Steve won't command use of emergency lines just for a personal call. Their apartment was nowhere near the fighting yet....

"Go home," Coulson tells him.

XXX

Loki isn't at home.

Steve pauses just inside the door, eyeing where Loki's shoes should be, the empty space on the entry table where his keys and wallet go, and reaches for his phone again, mouth dry.

XXX

He goes back to the rest of the team. Thor is already working to help clear away debris for rescues, and Steve works with him.

(That Loki's phone goes straight to voicemail when Steve manages to get through means nothing, nothing at all. Off. Battery dead. He starts trying to call Olek, tries not to hate himself for not having Lethe's number.)

Thor tells him about where the others are, eventually moving on to talking about a circus show that Clint took him to. Steve lets the words wash over him, checking idly every few minutes, and tries to be grateful for Thor's attempts to distract him.

 _He'll call_ , he thinks. _He'll call, he's okay, he's with Lethe or Olek, he's fine._

XXX

Steve’s phone rings just as he and Thor are walking back into the tower; Steve nearly drops his phone in his haste to answer it.

“Steve Rogers,” he says, mouth dry, ignoring Thor who is now slightly ahead of him, paused to wait.

“Steve? Steve, oh my gods, I finally got through, this—Steve, it’s Lethe, I’m at the hospital right now with Olek, I’ve been trying to call you—”

“Lethe,” Steve says, keeping his voice steady, grip going tight.”What hospital? What happened?”

“—and he just, he _went into a burning half-collapsed building_ , they found him about an hour ago, he _promised_ he would be back and he—”

“ _Lethe_ ,” Steve repeats, voice shaking.

“I”m sorry,” she says, and he can hear tears in her voice, “I’m sorry. I don’t know the name of it. The one closest to where the attacks started, we were trying a new restaurant over there when—Olek—” and she pulls the phone away for a moment, but Steve is already looking up at Thor, Thor who is still waiting.

“I have to go," Steve tells him.

"Where?" Thor asks.

XXX

“Steve!”

“Olek,” Steve says, resisting the urge to sprint the last distance, “Olek, where is he—”

“Slow down.” Olek puts a hand to Steve’s arm and Steve has to push back against the urge to shove Olek out of the way. “Steve. Lethe told me how he reacted when they found him and he woke. Slow a little—you rushing in may startle him awake.”

Steve blinks at Olek.

“What do you mean how he reacted?”

Olek frowns, and Steve falls into step with him, itching to move faster, to _see_ Loki, touch him, be sure he is real, know how badly he is hurt and _how_.

“He lashed out. Lethe says he kept screaming until they put him under, trying to push away from them.” Olek is watching Steve, as if Steve should know why Loki would react that way, and Steve _doesn’t know_ even if it echos Loki flailing out of bed some mornings with a sharp cry, or how quickly he snaps awake when disturbed from nap.

“I… how is he?”

They go in the room and Lethe glances up at them.

Steve's eyes only skim over the rest before landing on Loki, IV dripping and the steady beep of the heart monitor becoming a sudden sharp comfort. Loki is asleep, breath shallow, black bruises peeking from the edges of bandages, faintest hint of a cut on the bridge of his nose. He moves closer, not even realizing that Lethe has moved aside as he sits down on the edge of the bed. One hand hovers for a moment before he hesitantly touches the back of Loki's hand, fingers tracing over bones that feel more fragile than even the thinnest paper.

Steve shudders.

"What happened?" he breathes, voice cracking. "You said he—what did he do?"

"We were—he wanted to help. He was guiding people to the subway, giving directions. He's said he'd be back, but he hadn't so I went to check. He went back in, after a little girl, and the building collapsed before he came back out."

"His ribs are broken," Olek adds, crossing arms, frowning. "But that seems the worst so far."

"I'm sorry," Lethe says, a hint of anger in her voice. "I should have stopped him, or gone with him to keep—"

"No," Steve says without looking up, slipping his hand around Loki's, thumb rubbing half-circles into the flesh of Loki's palm. "No. This isn't your fault."

"Do you wish us to stay?" Olek asks.

Steve hesitates to answer, even as selfishly all he wants is to close out the rest of the world and curl around Loki. To keep him safe, and whole.

"It's okay," Lethe says. "I want to go home."

"Then I shall take you," Olek says, and Steve breathes a sigh that the choice is out of his hands. "Steve, my friend, call if you need anything at all. We all know he will be insufferable while he heals." He offers a smile, restrained and worried, and Steve forces one back.

"Thank you," Steve repeats.

XXX

Steve isn’t sure how long it is before Loki wakes, only knows that it feels like an eternity. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed and holds Loki’s hand as a reminder and tries to think. Tries to think anything that isn’t _he nearly died_ , anything but a hundred scenarios where Loki wakes and he is paralyzed. 

(It doesn’t matter that Loki fought before he was brought to the hospital, even as Steve tries to reason with himself.)

He bites his thumb and he shakes and watches Loki as Loki sleeps, fear slowly morphing to anger—that Loki would risk his life so recklessly, that Loki nearly died, that Steve wasn’t there to help him. He tries to push it away, because it’s irrational, it’s irrational and stupid and he’s held his tongue before when this need to _protect_ conflicted with the fact it wasn’t Steve’s choice to make.

(Quieter, quieter, underneath the fear and anger, he’s proud. Sick and proud, but proud.)

It’s hard, though, seeing how shallowly Loki breathes. Waiting, Steve suddenly has nothing but time to pick out the cuts and bruises on Loki’s skin he missed when he first came in.

XXX

Loki’s hand spasms, then tightens around Steve’s own. Steve lets out a sigh of relief even as he distantly notes how _tight_ Loki’s grip is—like he’s slipped, and reached out to catch himself.

“Loki,” Steve says as Loki’s eyes dart over the room, dazed, grip still desperately tight around Steve’s hand. “Loki, you’re okay,” Steve repeats, using his other hand to rub Loki’s wrist, and slowly, slowly, Loki’s grip relaxes. “You’re okay.”

Loki doesn’t acknowledge him, eyes still roaming over the room, breathing short, and Steve can hear his heart rate climbing. Sour taste in his mouth, Steve reaches forward, resting a hand on Loki’s neck, thumb brushing against his jaw, and Loki finally _looks_ at Steve.

“Loki,” Steve says, “Love. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

For a moment, Loki only stares without recognition before he lets out a rush of air, pressing his face against Steve’s hand.

“Safe,” Loki breathes, whisper that Steve would never have heard if not for the super serum. “Steve. Here.” Loki’s grip tightens around Steve’s again for a moment before relaxing.

“Yes,” Steve says. He hesitates a moment, then asks, “How do you feel?”

Loki goes to shrug and hisses, eyes closing.

“Apparently a building falling on you breaks your ribs,” Steve says, but he smiles, forces dry humour into it. He isn’t going to get angry at Loki. “You should be more careful.”

Loki frowns, eyes opening again, sharp and Perylene Green stained with gold; it is all the warning Steve gets.

“I am not some maiden who must be coddled from a stiff breeze!” Loki snarls—tries to snarl, voice rasping—and struggling to sit up, yanking his hand away from Steve’s.

“What?” Steve asks, startled. “I didn’t say that, Loki—”

“Oh, of _course_ not. I am entirely incapable of keeping myself safe, have never encountered strife before.”

“Except for the fact you're human now. Look, that isn't wh—”

“As if you do not do the same! As if you would survive a building falling on you anymore than I!”

“Loki. _Listen_ to me. Can’t you just be _reasonable_ for _once_?”

Green eyes widen, mouth opening, before Loki hisses.

“ _Reasonable_?! You would have me sit idly by, keep myself safe when there are things that I can do to _help_ , while _you_ throw yourself into danger at the slightest notice?! _Reasonable_ you hypo—”

“ _You nearly died!”_ Steve grabs Loki’s shoulders, barely managing to not shake Loki. He draws in a shaky breath, tries to swallow his tears. “You nearly _died_. I nearly lost you.”

“Sentiment,” Loki sneers. “I was helping. Besides, I would only be reborn again, it’s not as if—”

“No," Steve snaps, bitter, rage making his voice calm and quiet.

(That Loki thinks being _reborn_ makes everything better, that he’s trying to use it as an _option_ , when everything about their life—about Loki’s life—the friends—everything _lost_ , like that’s _acceptable_ —)

“What?” Loki asks, frozen in the hospital bed, eyes wide.

“Thor told us. What exactly your punishment means.” Loki does not remove his gaze, ashen beneath his already sickly pallor. “This is it. Second life away from your family, away from Asgard. Entirely. There isn’t a going back or a rebirth or someone stepping in. This is _it_.”

“But…”

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Steve says, petty and cruel, knowing even as he says it.

(And for a moment, he does not care.)

Pthalo Blue-green eyes focus; Steve flinches.

“Get out.”

“Loki, I’m so—”

“ _Get out!!_ ”

Loki fumbles for something to break or throw and lands on the IV in his arm. Snarling, he tears it out, reaches for Steve to try to reach to _break_ ; blood blooms scarlet on his arm as his skin tears against his stitches. Steve tries to push Loki back down, a hand pressing the nurse call button as Loki’s nails tear into his skin, shaking and eyes vibrant with rage and pain. Nurses rush into the room, pushing Steve out of the way and grabbing Loki, trying to keep him from getting out of bed, and Loki fights them until someone injects him with a tranquilizer before he can hurt himself more.

His eyes meet Steve’s, dazed and aching and _terrified_ , just before he slips under.

“I think it be best if you go for now,” one of the nurses says firmly. Steve nods, watching as the nurses check Loki over, clean and bandage his arm, make sure his ribs haven’t been jostled back out of alignment. He swallows bile as the conversation replays in his head, trying to understand what went wrong and _when_ (because it couldn't have been as soon as Loki woke, could it?)(except…). He watches Loki’s chest move and the heart monitor eases to a steady rhythm again. The nurse gives him a firm but gentle push; Steve walks out the door.

Thor stands there, his face white, staring past Steve into the room, and Steve has no idea why Thor is _here_ when he left him hours ago at the tower (except, when he looks at his phone and its missed calls, he does—someone who knew where he was, and came to get him).

“Yes, it’s him,” Steve says, collapsing on a chair outside the door. “I’d appreciate if you don’t mention it to anyone.”

Thor returns to looking at his brother.

“He’s who you have been seeing then. Why you wished to tell us that you sometimes take male lovers.”

“Yeah.” Steve leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. (Any other time he’d be worried how Thor would react to his being with Loki.)

A few long minutes of silence.

“This is why you asked about him. Why you cared when you found out how long he would live.” He can hear the rustle of fabric as Thor leans against the door frame, but he keeps his eyes closed, heart sick.

“I’d rather not think about his lifespan right now, if it’s all the same to you. There’s been enough of that today.”

Silence returns.

“I should leave.”

Steve opens his eyes to look at Thor. He has no idea what to call the expression on Thor’s face. Hurt. Longing. Confusion. Love and loss. A face should not be capable of holding so much on it at once. Thor does not look human, looks more than; it only emphasizes Loki’s change more, that Loki is fragile, a bird when once he was a giant.

Thor does not move to leave.

“Is he happy?”

“Sometimes.” And sometimes he locks himself in the bathroom under the shower water, trying not to destroy the apartment with hands that won’t be still and a mind that won't go quiet. Steve leaves that unsaid; Thor knows all the ways Loki destroys things when upset.

“I see. That is good to hear.”

“You could stay.”

Thor’s smile is all too knowing.

“No. This is what he wanted in any case, is it not? To be away from me. Out of my shadow.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, echo of the spiteful words he’d said to Loki minutes before. He swallows back bile again. He can’t tell Thor that sometimes Loki misses Thor even as he denies it, that sometimes Loki weeps after he thinks Steve asleep for the golden halls he can no longer return to. For all his missing, Loki will lash out and find fault if Steve does.

Besides, it’s not Steve’s call to make.

“I’ll talk to him. Or at least ask him to talk to his therapist. Maybe things can change.”

Thor looks away from Loki, eyebrows inching up.

“He has a therapist?”

“I, uh, kind of bullied him. Yeah.” Steve runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. It sounds so much worse when he puts it that way; essentially true, though.

Thor’s eyebrows manage to inch higher.

“And he agreed?”

“Well. Yeah. I mean, we’re together, aren’t we? Well now we are.” Steve pauses. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Thor does not say anything, looking away to Loki again.

XXX

By the time Loki wakes again, Thor has left and Steve has walked down to the grounds to give himself something to do while he waits. Steve comes back to find Loki, eyes still fogged and dull from medication, fumbling through a magazine a nurse must have given him. Steve pauses at the doorway, just watching for a few minutes.

“Do you plan to simply stare at me?” Loki does not look up.

Steve comes in and sits down on the edge of the bed. Loki keeps... pretend-reading (it’s a _car_ magazine, Steve knows Loki isn’t actually reading it), but one hand leaves the page to slip into Steve’s with a faint squeeze.

“I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry I called you unreasonable. And I'm sorry I lost my temper—I shouldn't have said what I did. I should have—it could have waited. A different time, and better.” And he is.

He wonders how much pain Loki is in (and hopes it enough to keep Loki from doing this again, no matter how ugly a thought it is).

Loki keeps looking at the magazine though his fingers struggle through numbness with the pages. He stirs slightly before he speaks.

“I thought you would be proud.”

“Please tell me that is not the only reason you went into a building both clearly on fire and about to collapse.”

Loki swallows. Steve moves closer, so he is sitting next to Loki; Loki leans his head against Steve’s shoulder. Resting one hand on the back of Loki’s neck, he gets an eyeful of black and purple skin, scrapes and bandages through the hospital gown. Once upon a time, a building falling on him wouldn’t have even phased Loki.

“Loki,” he whispers. He does not want to be the reason Loki is hurt.

“No.”

The word is almost too faint to hear. Gripping Steve’s hand more tightly, Loki goes on. “I don’t know what I was thinking. There was a girl who was stuck; I could help. That’s all. It… it was only a burning building. You would think I had tried to assault Jotunheim alone by how you are reacting.”

Steve forces a chuckle.

“I am not sorry.”

Steve blinks back tears and presses a quick kiss to the side of Loki’s head.

“You shouldn’t be. I’ll try not to be such a mother hen,” he promises. Loki nods slightly. “And I am proud. Still shakey and terrified, but I’m definitely proud. Just… don’t do that again. Ever.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.”

“About before—”

“Not now. I… later, Steve. Later.”

Steve bites his tongue and looks for something else to say.

“I love you.” It seems safe and it’s true.

“And I you.”

Eventually a nurse comes by and glares at them both before forcing Loki to lay back once more. Steve offers her his best apologetic smile (Loki stifles a snort to see it used on someone else, quickly stilling his face to innocence when both look at him) and then a doctor stops by to do one final check-up. Steve can already see Loki deciding which bits of the advice to ignore and mentally notes it all down, as well as deciding how best to make sure someone will be with Loki when he can’t be.

“So how much do you hurt?” Steve asks once they are both in the car. Loki blinks at him.

“You didn’t complain about the wheelchair, you’re sitting up straight even though we’re in the car, and you haven’t said a single word about how I’m trying to get us killed with my driving. Also smoothing your pants down.”

“I am a terrible influence on you,” Loki mutters, face sour.

“No, that’s Natasha.”

Loki snorts and goes back to staring out the window. Steve remembers conversations about how much _more_ things feel as a human and lets it go.


	30. Olek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. This chapter. This chapter nearly killed me to write. 
> 
> **Warnings** : PTSD, flashbacks, self-harm, violence, suicidal thoughts
> 
> I debated on naming this chapter after Olek, considering that he has also has a pivotal role next chapter. But considering the circumstances, this one makes more sense to be named after him.
> 
> Lastly, if anyone is curious, I wrote [a bit of meta](http://fel-as-in-tumbld.tumblr.com/post/59402728792/lets-talk-interludes-specifically-lets-talk) on why Steve reacting the way he did last chapter actually made sense (even though it was a fucking shitty thing to do). Not required at aaaaall to understand, but I thought some of you might be curious.

_a hand, pressing against his ribs (what is left of his ribs), splitting—_

He wakes, gasping, fire pulsing through his torso, and struggles to slow his breathing. Digging his hands into the sheets, he focuses on the cloth beneath his hands until the last trace of—of— _dream_ vanishes. _Dream_. Nothing more.

It leaves a sick feeling in his chest, but that is only the pain of broken ribs, same as what woke him.

There is light slipping in beneath the edge of the curtain, and the apartment is quiet. He fumbles for his phone where it would be on the bed stand before realizing it is not there, nearly knocking over the glass of water and bottle of pills that _are_ there. At least he does not need get up to ease the agony in his chest.

He does anyway, pausing to breathe with his head lowered as he sits up, breaking into a cold sweat and both hands gripping the edge of the bed. Exertion only; there are no memories to crowd his head that this hurt is some pale mockery of.

There is a note, underneath the glass of water. Spitefully, he wishes he _had_ knocked the water over and ruined it.

(He tries, desperately, to tell where this spite comes from, like Janelle has taught him, but everything is tangled together in a snarled mess of Steve's words and nameless hurt and pain and memory of—

_Nothing._ Memory of nothing.

Loki takes a few of the pain killers with the water before reading the note. It explains where his phone is—broken—and how Steve is getting it replaced and will be back soon. Despite what he expected, there are no words about being careful, no excess at all; it sits uneasily with him (one more thing _changed_ , when all he wants is—), when so often these notes are a comfort in themselves with doodles to depict what they contain.

There is an apology. Another.

Loki ignores it and what it is for, shoving it back against all the not-memory that is (not) crowding his head, and makes himself stand to find food.

XXX

By the time Steve returns, Loki has moved nearly every pillow and blanket they have to the couch, struggling to keep his eyes open as cartoons play across the screen, ice cream turned to an untouched mess.

(He cannot sleep with thoughts crowding his head of _no back_ and _no worth no_ —blinks and there is ( _dull blue glow against an abyss and hands pre—_ ) _nothing_ , nothing at all—)

He hears the door click, hears Steve sliding his shoes off, shuffle of his feet across the room. A pause, and Loki flicks his eyes away from the television he can’t focus on to where Steve stands at the back of the couch, one hand resting on the white suede. He blinks, waiting for Steve to say something (apologize most likely, and vaguely, distantly, anger stirs beneath the dull and constant pain in his chest, but it’s so _distant_ , removed, as if there is another Loki who is furious the way he should be but he cannot think cannot because in thought there is—).

“Got your phone replaced, they put all your numbers back on it,” Steve says. Loki watches him take in everything, then their eyes meet again. “Do you need anything?”

Loki desires to answer, but the thought of opening his mouth—of risking emotion distantly humming in his bones slipping out and exhausting what little energy he has left—makes him only shake his head.

(His throat feels closed off, swollen, and underneath the thin layer of anger is an emotion he does not know, dark currents beneath ice that threaten to swallow him whole.)

“Where do you want your phone?” Steve asks.

Loki holds a hand up (ignores brief flare of pain ( _knife, it feels like a knife only sha—_ )) and Steve sets the phone in his hand. He lets it slip from his fingers to the space between his body and one of the pillows, turning his attention back to the television again, eyes slipping half shut.

He hears Steve inhale to speak, and says

“Later”

before he realizes the word has left his mouth.

“Do you... okay. I have to go out again. I—do you want Olek or Lethe to come by?”

“Who did you invite?” Loki asks dully.

“No one.”

That makes him look to Steve, but Steve is telling the truth as Steve always does (when _asked_ )(truth, that must be part of it, that must be part of _why_ , why there is no _worthy_ because he can _lie_ (can’t be trusted), he will never see, never—

“Loki?” Steve asks, voice quiet, and Loki let his gaze drift away.

“Tell Olek to come,” Loki says, because perhaps Olek will have the decency to bring vodka with him to push down emotion that keeps slipping up with his words.

XXX

Steve waits until Olek arrives before he leaves again. Loki hears them talking, voices low in the kitchen, and cannot (does not, will not, because in focus there is--) focus enough to string together what the syllables mean. Steve says something to Loki before he leaves; Loki gives a noncommittal hum.

He realizes, after a few minutes, Olek is standing at the foot of the couch, arms crossed and frowning.

“Vodka?” Loki asks.

Olek snorts.

“The very last thing you need, my friend, is vodka.”

Loki sighs; he does not want to get up again, phantom pain ghosting in his chest and back at the thought.

“You do not need any alcohol,” Olek adds. He grabs the bowl of melted ice cream, frowning deepening again. “When did you last eat?”

The anger humming his bones stirs, snapping into place, and it is _his_ anger, not _anyone else’s_ , hot and needy and _painful_ , and he needs to tear, to _break_ ( _be careful, take care, are you well—_ as if any of it _matters_ , as if there is _value_ in this infinitesimal span of time he has because there is _nothing else_ , not beyond this, there never was, and he _knew_ , he _knew_ , in his bones, because it was in what Frigga did not say, what _value_ is there to be found in a monster, what _worth_ —)

"Why? Because I am too incapable to care for myself?"

“Because food is one of life's great wonders, and I am hungry,” Olek says placidly, carrying the ice cream away.

“It’s what you meant,” Loki snaps, forcing himself to sit up from the pillows. “It’s what _all of you_ think, it is why you’re _here_ , now, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” His eyes find Olek’s where Olek has paused, and he snarls, “ _Tell me!_ ” so strongly it leaves him dizzy and breathless from pain, hands digging into the blankets on his lap.

"I am here because you are my friend," Olek says, as if it is so simple.

(But what is there in him that Olek can see that As—Asga—that _they_ cannot, what _value_ when he cannot prov—

"Liar," Loki says, and swallows, looking at Olek again as he catches movement from his peripheral, Olek stepping towards him. "You are lying." The taste of the words in his mouth is bitter. Olek pauses and it is confirmation, because Olek did not expect him to realize, but Loki _did_ because what _reason_ could—

He snarls as Olek steps closer, getting to his feet despite how it _hurts_ to move so quickly, leg catching on a blanket. He stumbles, tries to catch himself, _furious_ with himself beneath the _agony_ tearing through him; when he can see again, Olek has grabbed him, has eased him to sitting and is knelt before him.

He cannot stop shaking; everything feels as if it is slipping, as if _he_ is slipping.

"Luke," Olek says, voice gentle.

"Don't act as if you care," Loki hisses. "Don't act as if you care when I am nothing more than some _project_ for you, isn't that right? How you are always _meddling_ in other lives, always _projects_. Always ever some— _let me go!_ " He tries to push Olek's hands away, but Olek does not, as if he _knows_ how barely held together he is.

"You are not a project," Olek says, still _calm_.

" _Do not lie to me!_ " Loki screams, hands convulsing, nails tearing into Olek's skin, and it _hurts_. He gasps, trying to remember _breathe shallow breathe shallow_ but he cannot _breathe at all_ and he _hurts-hurts-hurts-stop-please-please-anything-anything-what do you want stop please-please-please_ and he claws for purchase as everything shifts, tries to kick and lash out but it _hurts-please- **please** _ and he sobs (worse worse _worse_ ), tears spilling over, scalding, but there is _warmth_ and _solid_ and steady rhythm before him, and he hangs tight as he weeps, shattered, knowing it a lie, another illusion in an endless parade, and he does not _care_ because even if the pain is not gone they are not making it _worse_ , not for now, and he shakes and cries and wishes he were dead.

There are words. He does not understand them, but they rise and fall in a steady rhythm, thrum against his heart, vowels round and lovely, and slowly, slowly, he slides back, slowly realizes there is a hand stroking his hair, that his head is pressed against a thin cotton shirt, and he opens his eyes to find the world a blur and Olek with him on the couch, one hand combing his hair, other stroking the back of his neck.

Olek.

Not there. Not—

"Luke," Olek says gently, leaning Loki's head back to meet his eyes. "You are safe. No one is hurting you. No will hurt you, not while I am here. I know you do not need protecting, before you grow angry and think I suggest you incompetent. Do you understand?"

He tries to find words, tried to tell Olek and instead leans his head back down and _weeps_ because _this is why_ , this is why, he is so _weak—_

"This is why what, Luke?" Olek asks, still stroking his hair, still rubbing circles in the back of his neck.

"Can't go back," Loki chokes out. "Not—not—there is no _worthy_ , look at this, so _weak,_ " and he wishes he were dead; that he were in bed, that he had not left because there is a knife in the bed stand and one want could coincide with the other, and he laughs and it hurts so he sobs and that hurts, too.

"Shhh," Olek hums. "Shh. You are well, Luke, you are well. What mythical place would ever refuse to take you back?"

The _sound_ that is tugged out of him is low, shattered as he was on landing, jagged edges of bone digging and tearing into muscle.

" _Home_ ," he cries, tears spilling fresh.

Olek only tightens his hold, lips pressing to his brow. Olek is shaking, hands unsteady.

"Who told you such a thing? When?" There is anger banked in Olek's voice, dizzying anger that promises storms and blood and Loki flinches because what if-what if-what if—what if _this_ is an illusion. Olek never grows angry, never loses his temper, so this must not be real, all of this _another_ illusion and he—

"Luke," Olek says, firm, as solid in voice as his warmth is real, and Loki gasps in a breath, then another.

"Steve," Loki tells him, because perhaps if he gives this, he can keep this illusion a little longer. "Steve, at the hospital." Olek says nothing, nothing at all, and Loki whispers, "Don't go, don't, a little longer. Please-please- _please longer I don't want-please—_ "

"I swear to you," Olek says, voice thick with accent, heavy and solid and weighty. He wraps his arms around Loki's shoulders, and though it hurts a little, Loki is wildly grateful for the hug, desperate, hands digging into Olek's shirt.

They lay squeezed on the couch until, eventually, Loki only aches, can breathe, has managed to slide the rest of the way from (not) memory to now. His eyes are drifting shut once more before Olek speaks again.

"You need sleep, my friend." Olek strokes a hand through Loki's hair. "Shall we move you to bed?"

Loki nods, mute, and avoids thinking of the knife in the bed stand because he does not need it, _does not-does not-does not_.

( _but what does it ma_ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olek isn't perfect. We don't see that often, because he isn't a main character, and he's very good at understanding how to navigate around Loki. He's good at it because of experience and having fucked up in the past, not because he's magic. He's terrible at acting on romantic love--we saw a little glimpse of that way back in Quiet Poetry--despite hooking other people up (no, he is not romantically in love with Loki anymore; he let that go ages ago). He doesn't share what he's going through or experiencing readily or easily for all his verbosity and ability to listen. He meddles, pushes, and prods at people (hello, getting Natasha and pressuring Steve into making Loki go to therapy anyone?), and if a person isn't someone he holds close, he has a tendency to be cold if they need his help. He takes forever to get angry, even in situations where anger is called for. He's a man of a thousand acquaintances, and very few friends.
> 
> That said, Loki is one of the dearest people in the world to Olek. He didn't set Steve up with Loki so much as Loki up with Steve, because he sincerely wanted a good relationship for Loki, and thought Steve could do that. 
> 
> Personally, I wouldn't want to be Steve next chapter.


	31. help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed my mind about upcoming chapter order
> 
> sorry
> 
> anyway warnings. 
> 
> no seriously, **warnings** : self-hate, self-harm, body dysphoria, attempted suicide

He sleeps and wakes in starts. Movement wakes him, both his own and others near him.

He hurts through a vague fog, but when he looks, his chest is only bruised.

(That is how he knows this isn’t real; in reality, he should not feel so removed from himself, should be able to feel each arc of pain, should be able to _see_ blood and bone white. Should hurt as a god ( _monster_ ) should hurt.)

He wakes once to Lethe and Olek talking. It’s quiet and indistinct, merges and twists with dissonant melody trying to assemble itself in his head. He lays and he listens to them and wonders how much of them is the Oth— _their_ illusion, and how much his mind crafted for him.

(He did not think his mind able to conjure such kind people, but he did always have an active imagination, and he knows what kindness looks like from watching others.)

He wants, very much, to die, but Olek’s voice is a low dark key and Olek has stopped him from tearing himself apart before. This is not the moment he needs.

He closes his eyes, lets their voices lull him to another doze.

He rolls over and his chest hurts ( _almost_ real).

Lethe is there.

“Luke?”

Right. Luke Friggson. A gift.

( _He can’t go back_ , _there is no worthy, not for Loki, and there never was_.)

(Did they think of that, or did he?)(It’s too exquisite, too intimate, surely he was the one who thought the thought and _they_ only made it more breathtaking. A joint effort.)

He forces a pale smile as he sits up, sliding to the edge of the bed.

“Lethe,” he says, and his voice does not ring and fill the space, his voice is not his.

(That is how he knows this isn’t real.)

“Where is Olek?” he asks.

“He had to step out. He said you hadn’t eaten? I brought food with me if you want any.”

He hums, mouth a thin line

(he is not _weak_ he does not need _help_ he does _not—_ )

and then he forces another pale smile.

“That would be excellent,” he says (swallowing down the haze of violence) because Olek is not here and Lethe is not so strong. “If you could bring it here?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling. She does not close the door behind herself, but why would she?

He reaches for the bedstand, hands numb enough they fumble to pull open the drawer (unsteady enough because he knows he knows he _knows_ , and he might manage it _this time_ , not falling for eternity, not illusion vanished, because if he _dies here_ —

the knife is not there. He stares for a few moments, wants to collapse in on himself for the ache and despair

( _because it is not there_ and this will repeat this will—

hates himse—

 _he wants to die why won’t they let him that’s why he let go_ —

There is a cup on the bedstand. Light slices through it and he stares at it. Not a knife but Steve ( _who invented Steve_?)(was it him who made him so imperfect? he always does marr all that is good and gold—) likes _glass_ , complains of weight when it is not.

He can’t make out where Lethe is in the cacophony in his head ( _be quiet please be quiet stop stop_ ), but if he hurries, if—

The glass shatters as he breaks it on the edge of the bedstand; a few knicks in his skin, but he barely feels them

(that is how he knows this isn’t real)

and there is one, large and wickedly curved, that skids across the surface and balances oh so precariously on the edge.

“Luke?” he hears, but it only makes him reach for the shard faster, half-panicked ( _no no no not this time_ ), heedless of how he grips it because ( _this isn’t real_ ) he needs to _hurry_ , dragging the broken point into his wrist ( _along the vein it won’t matter hurry_ )—

—and stops, dropping the shard as if burned, because it _hurts_. Viciously, _violently hurts_ , deep, the glass cutting into his palm where he gripped it, an inch long line of _fire_ on his wrist welling up blood, blood hot and fresh, and it _hurts_ this is _real_ , he is real, shaking as he slams back into himself, staring at his hands, at the blood

_this is real_

“Luke, no, no, stop,” Lethe says, knocking the glass away from him, hands pressing sheets to his wrist to stem the bleeding, and he only stares, mouth parted and shocked.

_this is real_

Lethe is talking, fast, and he’s not even sure she knows what she is saying. She looks up at him and their gazes meet, her eyes warm brown ( _not an illusion_ )(his name is Loki, once of Asgard now of Midgard, he is called Luke Friggson, he is a musician, he stopped _them_ from getting to Asgard, he is human now and that is where his strength has gone)

_this is real_

“What _happened_ to you?” Lethe asks, voice nearly breaking (over him?), and she is holding cloth to his wrist, pressing and real, and Loki opens his mouth to say _nothing_ because he made his choice, _he_ did, no one else—

(if this is real then he is only Luke to Lethe, only Luke, and he _hurts_ —

“Help”

His voice is so _quiet_ , and he swallows ( _ashamed_ , how cowardly to _ask_ )(desperate, _desperate_ , because if this is real he is _Luke_ to Lethe, Luke is human, Luke shouldn’t be so adrift, _he_ is Luke, he’s real, he _is_ , and Lethe is real and Lethe _cares_ ). He is shaking, vibrating, a string drawn too tight, pitched sharp and ready to snap.

(if he thinks he will get angry because _what happened_ and _nothing nothing nothing_ )

_this is real_

His hands rest face up in his lap, left bleeding sluggish, Lethe’s hand clamped on his wrist, the white sheet stained crimson. He can feel storms threatening to drown him beneath the surface, cacophony in his head ready to break ( _hate_ and _spite_ and _anger_ at being so weak), and he struggles to ride them, pushing his hands (and they _hurt_ , real hurt, _this is real_ ) towards her in a gesture that goes nowhere, a shrug as helpless as his voice.

“Help,” he says, again, choking the word out before anger can crush him, before he can lash out (he does not want to hurt Lethe, Lethe is _real_ , Lethe _cares_ ).

“Of course, Luke,” Lethe says, hands tightening around his. “Of course. We’re going to go to the hospital, and I’m going to call Janelle.” She offers him a smile (one of her smiles, _he did not invent that_ ). “Do you want me to call anyone else?”

He can’t answer, but he shakes his head (wants to scream and tear and break at even the idea of _Janelle_ , Janelle who knows his weaknesses, but he mustn’t hurt Lethe, _Lethe doesn’t know_ , Lethe is _real_ , Lethe _cares_. Lethe is helping, Lethe thinks Janelle will help, he asked and she is helping, Janelle helps, she does).

“Okay. Let’s go.”

It is not so quick—she cleans his hands and wrist, helps him change to things not blood-stained—and yet it feels as rapid as his heart and his anger pulsing beneath his skin. He _feels_ the movement, even if he keeps forgetting how to breathe, _to_ breathe. The pain in his hand, in his wrist, is _real_ , keeps dragging him back into himself, like a leash he keeps choking on (the most welcome leash he has ever worn)( _the only leash_ , he made a _choice_ ).

(It is not the pain of his chest split open, of shattered bones that ache until he is numb and resigned and barely able to feel beyond the haze of it, illusions barely real before his eyes)

Lethe keeps her hand on his, and when she finally deems them both presentable, when she finally leads him out, he follows.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I have _one_ chapter finished of this. So uh, here we go. I think this is a better place to leave it hanging than that last chapter :( :(
> 
> EVERYONE IS SO SAD ALL THE TIME.

Loki keeps a knife in the bedstand drawer. Kept.

Now, it sits heavy in Steve's pocket, neat and folded and so small, like it's no threat at all. Like Steve is over-reacting, to get it out of the drawer and bring it with him.

(Loki was so _listless_.)

He feels half-smothered, like a storm approaching and turning the air too thick, too wet for human lungs to breathe.

The storm is already past--it did when he lost his temper and he's left standing in the wake, trying to breathe through the guilt.

(Loki was so listless.)

He wishes apologies could be enough.

(Maybe he should go.)

***

Thor doesn't say anything; it makes it so much _worse_. Thor barely acknowledges him, and Steve wonders if maybe he's the self-destructive one--the way he wants to tell Thor what happened borders on suicidal.

Steve tells himself Thor isn't talking about it because they're not alone, and Loki needs to stay out of SHIELD's hands. He's protecting Loki, being the older brother he's always tried to be.

(Thor's fury might feel like absolution; Steve hates himself for the thought; as if any one but Loki could give it to him now and it mean anything.)

***

Olek doesn't call, and Steve tries to take it as a good sign.

***

"You okay?" Clint asks later, when they're both tired and dirty from trying to help with the cleanup. "Is Luke?"

"No," Steve says. "His ribs are broken, some other injuries."

Clint winces.

"He'll pull through."

"Yeah," Steve says. The knife he's been trying to ignore is still a heavy weight.

Loki will pull through, and how little Steve has done to make sure of that. As if Loki won't manage to find another knife if he's determined.

(Loki was so listless--and what cold comfort that is.)

"You need anything, let me know," Clint says.

It's too much kindness; Steve doesn't deserve it. Clint should be furious with him, would be if he knew everything. Would likely be _glad_ of what's happened with Loki.

"I need to go," Steve says thickly, and leaves before Clint can reply.

***

( _It's what you wanted, isn't it?_ )

He dry retches in a back alley; he doesn't know for how long. He's going to be late to meeting Olek, but he doesn't care. The words keep repeating, the widen of Loki's eyes, the devastation--

( _Later_ Loki breathes, exhausted. _Later_.)

\--and Steve comes up for air. He sucks down lungful a at a time, tasting the still settling dust on the air, the distant smoke of fires long put out. The air is hot and still and oppressive; it'll be days before the smell of smoke leaves if it doesn't rain.

He rests his head against his forearm for a moment, then stands back, shoving a hand through his hair. He checks the time--late, of course he's going to be late.

Olek hasn't tried to call or text, though, and if Steve hurries it won't be too bad. Maybe he isn't the only one running late.

***

Olek isn't at the restaurant, but the to-go order is ready. Steve hesitates, waits a few minutes just in case, and double checks his phone. Nothing. When he calls Olek instead, there's no answer.

Steve's stomach knots.

(Everything is _fine_. No one's called. Everything is fine.)

He pays for the food and carries it out. He'll stop by the apartment, Olek is probably there. Lethe probably couldn't stop by, or Loki doesn't want him to leave. Natasha certainly couldn't get away right now to keep an eye on Loki, stuck in medical for now. Olek just forgot to let him know, left his phone on silent.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Just as he gets back and is unlocking the door, his phone rings. Steve shuffles everything around, answering just before it stops ringing--Lethe.

"Hi, Lethe. I'm just getting back," Steve says by way of answer.

Everything is _fine_ ; if she were here, she'd have heard him unlocking the door. She's calling to say she's running late, or maybe Loki wanted to get out of the apartment for a bit.

(He remembers how sickly pale and pained Loki was after moving; maybe not.)

"Hi, Steve. I, um. I had to bring Loki back to the hospital."

Steve's mouth goes dry.

"He's not dying or anything, but I left his wallet and need his insurance information?" Lethe pauses, adds awkwardly, "I thought you might know it."

***

"I don't know what's going on," Lethe says, "but Janelle thinks it might be best if you stay out here for now." She worries at her lower lip as she looks up at him, but she's not hunching in and her stance is firm.

Steve can't bring himself to smile, but he does nod.

"I can do that."

"Thank you," Lethe says. "For, you know. Bringing this. Listening. We left in a bit of a hurry."

Steve doesn't need to ask why, not if Janelle's involved.

"How is he?" he asks instead.

"Alive, not bleeding all over everything. I cleaned him up, some, but those sheets are probably ruined. Sorry." Lethe takes a steadying breath, swallows and looks away from Steve. "Sorry. I didn't know-- As soon as Janelle thinks him having other visitors is okay, I'll tell you."

"Thank you," Steve says. "I'm glad you were there."

Lethe gives a right nod before turning to go. She stops, glancing over her shoulder.

"Olek is probably going to be on his way; he didn't answer his phone, but I left him a message. Let him know, will you?"

"Of course," Steve says.

He sits down in a waiting chair after she leaves, watches people go by.

As soon as Janelle thinks him having other visitors is okay--

He puts his face in his, hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes out.

" _Fuck_."


End file.
